poetry is never a constant refuge
neither are dark cold bridges
there are some irregular breathing patterns
heart palpitations
and shaky hands
poetry can't heal
or darkness can calm down
the heart races on and fingers twitch more
jagged shaky breaths are still there
headaches plague still
isolation does nothing,
mother nature leaves you be
the insomnia threatens to manifest
once more, for the umpteenth night
eyes shift front and down
fingers desperately hold on to pencil
in awkward grips
as the letters scratch
from awkward angles
no pill or drink heals this
nagging plague,
this something i do not know
does it have a name?
the singer whispers
as this poem ends