Nothing to Write





Would‘ve written an epic, an ode or some such,

Or jotted a story, an instance, too much?


Could‘ve written stuff endlessly, and gone batshit crazy,

Or jotted biographies, for memories are hazy.


With pain in my heart and a hole in my mind,

I travel through streets with fellows unkind.


My window, is misty, don‘t know what‘s out there,

But it’s futile since i know, there‘s nothing in here.


Would write a memoir for excruciating, maddening pain,

Would measure them in units, justifying loss and gain.


If only i was conscious, if only alive,

If only i had you and my paper, my pen.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s