I lack will to put down any word,
unsure in what to let out, in vague strains and standard refrains and
I feel like a fog, settling over a row of hilltop pines,
    like I've nothing left, short of to get up and try.
  
    but I won't try, I won't try,
   anymore,
  no, not if you won't
give me a sign or reason,
               please;
just give me anything    to believe in,
because I keep running out of those,
                                               of time,
and it's still just
                                                    you,
                             turning my mind
into dreamsoaked wishful hopes,
             and that subsequent collapse into hopelessness,
               and all I know, in this,
is how lost this small, sad person is,
or seems to feel like,
                                 on any average day.
just like any other day.