The scheming crease of your withered lure,
a smile sweet and vicious falters to the left.
My secret fear, the facts laid bare as poultry.
There is no stone past or present that I
have not wept over, no flood in which I have not
consequently drowned. How the extremes beckon me!
I do not endure, the stream erodes my sallow shores.
Lines spread across my brow, the incoming swell,
a madness that etches all that is necessary in me.
Misery is not meaningless, it is a way of translating
that which is expressively incommunicable.
I am feeling very gloomy, we are now experiencing the darkest days. My writing has been very unfocused lately I realize, I am just feeling off. I can’t really explain it, like a sense of withering humiliation.