my body is out of sync with my mind
my brain?
that thing is on a different planet
hanging on by a thread.
my body?
it serves little purpose,
just a puppet that can only write,
and take up space.

a hollow shell of porcelain
a schism between here and there
i have left, i am gone
and there is no one there waiting for me.

my body rots, but my mind is ethereal,
floating in a nebula of printer ink,
out of sight,
out of mind.