I haven't written a poem in days.
I tell myself,
"These aren't the days you write, man -
these are the days you write about. "
Ok brain, that's cool and sounds
metaphorical and dark, I'll take it.
Then days turn into weeks, weeks into months -
And before I realize it, my stomach is
outside of my body - and mind,
wet, and cold among organs
pitifully trapped - I tell jokes
without punchlines, and dream without color - the food
doesn't taste like it used to, and the clouds
sometimes don't move for hours