rested but empty
slow wanderings
onward, inward
with nothing
but a black perspective
typing to feel something
and waiting for the righteous arrival
of artistic discomfort
these morning are the worst
there’s just too little time
to inspire the beast
and the soul is just too encrypted
no headlines
just deadlines
something is broken
and it’s so quiet
that even my cats
won’t come to visit
all i have are
faded faces on the wall
and the frantic click
of these few scattered keys