He felt infected, trapped, and tormented by thoughts that simply wouldn’t leave his mind. Like some hideous ailment, it left him groping for some kind of balance. But it never found him. Even his dreams were a betrayal, attacking when there was no escape.
If words lit the way, life would be such a simple thing.
The sky would shine blue, and the grass grow green.
But the language of life speaks in strange tongues,
Swallowing selves with indescribable scenes,
Burning with the flavors of passion.
So all my words hang useless,
In unspoken thoughts.
Drifting asunder,
Spinning,
Lost.
Don’t ask why. I really couldn’t explain what draws me to spout out a crappy poem every few months. Possibly boredome at work. Feel like I need to get out of here. Not work, but, you know.
