I'm nearly catatonic.
My eyes shift spasmodic in their sockets.
They're closed, and it's far too quiet
for the racket ripping my inner eardrums.
Reliving the sound of grim acceptance.
Slack faced,in the blackness.
"I guess this is it".
I said it then. And I say it now.
Didn't make a terrible difference,did it?
Gifted quesarito wrappers are
halfheartedly crumpled in the floor.
I was dead, I died, I'm dead once more.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
I'm nearly catatonic.
My eyes shift spasmodic in their sockets.
They're closed, and it's far too quiet
for the racket ripping my inner eardrums.
Reliving the sound of grim acceptance.
Slack faced,in the blackness.
"I guess this is it".
I said it then. And I say it now.
Didn't make a terrible difference,did it?
Gifted quesarito wrappers are
halfheartedly crumpled in the floor.
I was dead, I died, I'm dead once more.
Request permission to use this poem