Concentration broken up into fragments
Never meaning more than a lingering thought
To the main idea
Choking myself on air
Is a complex method for keeping still
Many forces at work in the dissolving and destitution
Of the creator of thoughts
Perplexed by the knots in his palms
His failure to put the pen to the paper
Like a knife sliding down an already opened wound
Blood spilling out
But it doesn't mean a damn thing
And for shame, for shame...
One to reflect back
On such tired stories
To pull one thread
Worth clutching
Drain it till it's dry!
Till there's nothing left!
We're immediate in our acknowledgements of such success
But bound to a basic formula
Not worth noting
Great pieces
Coming out of a great nothing
Stranded by itself
On the island
...And the falling
Of debris
As the plane crashes
Into the sea
Oh, the trappings of routine.
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