And yet forcing myself to think hard
How I could separate from isolation
Because I have used all the cards
In all the turns and rotations

I begin with death, no broken hearts or maybe the good moments
It goes on without any concentration
Maybe a task would come up,
Maybe hours of sorrow
something will just add up
The spaces of hollow

But it doesn't? Why is it all blank?
Why is the stare at nothing?
A thought of nothing should bother at all
But it still is...
It still creates a path to dream within a dream within a dream
And this continues to fall
I'd like to walk back to time when there is a door named recall
But there isn't

What if I am notified that I've got a mail waiting to be opened

What if I am told that my favourite show is waiting to be watched
Well, I mean If I am expected to mark a list to do that I could do right now
I would definitely find an excuse somehow
Just to ignore them and one by one I would have more excuses to create
More places to locate
More time to waste

Only then would I get past this awful taste
Taste of nothing and running, wrecking anything available to think

The last time I was sick
throwing up pints of ick
not once did I think of love
or anything above
that porcelain refuge
the object of my deluge.

Being sick focuses the brain
on the body’s strain
chains freedom to pity
makes one feel so bitty
all you can see is the floor to the ***
hoping you’ll be in time to squat.

Next morning when I hope it’s passed
questions arise in me to ask
what if this pause in my health
is no pause but a demise of the wealth
I’ve so long taken for granted
and I’ll be forever stuck and disenchanted.

Scarcity focuses the brain
like drought makes you ache for rain
or poverty narrows your sight
to the very next meal or bite
what you don’t have in hand
makes you do anything you can

makes you shout and sing
for that longed-for thing
you look hither and yon
for what seems so far gone.
Then you must work on relearning
to let go of sick yearning.

He's staring intently
                                                  at the task in hand
incomplete masterpiece
                                                 outlined (a deep black)
bitten lip;
                                                 - out of focus
I adoring His own
                                              magnum opus
hands;
ache to trace
                                             sharp jawline; a
defined collarbone-
                                            ridges and valleys
…..Gravitating back
                                           he holds it up for approval
dimpled smile;
                                               breaking dawn

                            "Perfect"
                     (hear myself whisper)
closer now, frozen tide
                                             a whiff of the ocean
                        tsunamis in my heart ; waves crashing

          (but I wasnt talking about the sketch)