I don’t even know what to write anymore,


All of the words are on the shore.


None makes sense of what 

An obstructed mind 

Would presume.


Im choking on all 

Of my raw 




That float

Above the sea

Of too many

I don’t think so’s


An obligation,

I would assume.

For an admirer

Of an entire delicate

Art of poetry.


I’m enslaved

To a fugitive

Of a kind.


I’m addicted to

The ifs and buts,

The cans and could nots’.


Oh I can tell you,

If my mind was ever following a story,

Or believing it all true.


I don’t even know

What to write anymore


Fill in my veins

The vital consequence of poetry,


I will never enjoin 

For nothing else

For a whole viability once again.