(no subject)

[thesorrow]

I buried my voice beneath the ocean crest
as far from timorous passion as one can get
from the globs of sunshine at twilit sky
and the steadfast mast of the scandalous and harbored night
took my words,
hurled them in the sea,
and I can't swim.

my head is a bobbing pumpkin rotted and scourged
gashes grow deep
as the sun, 'cross windowpanes, forged
ideas pulp out onto a promising dashboard
and make in its spread, a fleecy bed
upon which to mantle a dreary head
while the world crumbles
and I fall fast asleep.

there is nothing left to write. and nothing tastes good anymore. arrested development.