poems in the pitfalls

a journal with yellowing pages i leaf through,
but the pens running out of ink,
and the crumpled paper blotted with scratched out lines beg to differ.

the prompts have been scarce,
head and taillights showing and hiding themselves in a single moment, silver fish too slippery to touch
the way it's been is noticeable now,
laps repeatedly swam in my own fraudulence-
the way it isn't for the better is a mocking laugh at the face:

i haven't written anything for long my last piece was....
see, i can't remember when, not the last one i can stand, but in the literal sense.

the usual subjects aren’t gone, no-
the things that keep one up until the wee hours, the mood sitting atop you after rain,
and the indescribable urge to stare into space, bleakly, possibly, willingly into the future, these muses and others wearing similar cut garments.

it's just this altercation;
i say that instead of the blame game.

lately i can't help but stare,
not peoplewatching no, but into nothing in particular, fitting itself into routine, becoming the routine itself.

it isn't quiet out there really though there’s a haze.

see, it’s not that i ran out of sadness to write about they've been dried out,
clay figurines faster than i could ruminate fossilizing and not into pieces in exhibitions, perceptible by touch, my fingers have memorized, good to stare at but too present, still as indiscernible still managing to press me down.

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Cover Photo by Francesco Ungaro.