I’ll put my thoughts into notes,
Combinations of incongruous words,
Trying to piece together a feeling.
They slip through though.
Maybe if I write I’ll get closer to truth,
But all I receive are short poems.
They barely convey what’s falling apart inside my head,
Imagine screams,
Static,
Sobs,
Something that can’t quite be placed.
But I’ll build my collection,
Maybe one day the value will accrue,
Make all the wondering worth it.
Seems unlikely,
But that’s the problem with addiction,
You think it fills something,
All it does is remind you that you are empty.