the civil war that depleted all the soil of the soul

poetry

the worst part is
i’ve got nothing to say to myself
let alone at all
the colors of fall
they blind me with apathy
coat me with meloncholy
stifle me with uno

rigi

nali

ty
clog my veins into a syrupy
oil so thick it’s
not to be used by
farm tractors

let alone human beings
i touch the brink of a
thought with the tongue
of my mind and then it
withers away in the
laziest way
the craziest way
how can an artist ever
get payed this way?
i mean,
how long until i chop
off my ear?
or
will i even ever chop
it off?
that failure, too,
is the worst part.

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