Inside, is this thing about me, it has stolen my voice,
It's like ash has seeped into my lungs from an invisible fire fueled by hatred, it has broken my will to stand on two legs, a gentle world slipped out from under the covers,
forgotten,
In my arms a purring cat that reminds me of the ocean waves crashing along the shore of a place I once felt at peace, it's frustrating to lose track of such wonderful memories,
I feel insane, but I am calm and understand that this is just a phase, chapters on the moon are written in the clouds in day
I realized now, either this mind is too creative than what I think capable or my abilities have left me with only formal beginnings, so breaking the mold has not left me with many options,
Indeed sleep and food will provide healing when it seems fit, but for some reason I would better wish luck could do some providing, this hard effort has made me sick,
Indebted to silence, my rain check has finally been checked off, the papers folded and what's left of the ink is saved for my last breath.
Incurable, only by my diagnosis, and only a poet am I, not a doctor, this in lies the problem,
Indifferent about such touchy topics, resorting to backtracking my statements, fair enough?
Indecisive? so are the current topics of the new world conspiracy, such a soft melody replaying in the foreground, as my mind goes out the back.
it's been awhile Mr. Poe...
