I haven't written anything in a while because
my shaky muse is just
a rogue gunshot from a pair of very uncertain hands
and I'm trying hard to swallow the barrel
but my stomach is sapped and struggles and quivers to hold
anything substantial down. My body is just a side-effect
of something so painfully small and
I'm learning that my obsession with
heart palpitations through smoke and stubbornness
makes me recoil in the daylight.

My eyes are growing old and decrepit
when I stop seeing things as stories to unfold,
and instead view them as a very dull reflections of my surroundings.