this is the mood for a poem, i think:
skin crusts in corners whenever i blink.
i was feeling quite down just a moment before,
but now i’m a shell, like i was times before.

it’s short-lived, i hope, as i write the next line,
hoping this wont be like previous times

this is the mood for a poem, i say,
as my dreams and my hopes and my thoughts drift away.
i wonder if they know that i’d like them to stay.

read something, watch something, write something, stop.
the words start to slow, then the moment is gone.
stories and poems alike, gather dust.
and the gears that turn thoughts, grind as they all turn to rust.

i blame it on the water that never comes out.
the kind that’s trapped behind eyes when you struggle to shout.

this is the mood for a poem, i write,
as the words stretch beyond what i thought was just mine.
write something. stop. no. it’s not done.
i set the pen down and i reach for a-