Sunday, March 2, 2008


I feel strangely tired
Or weary
Or just plain sick of life

Its like nothing else matters
Nothing else
Nothing else

Its like my hands can craft
only nothing from nothing
like that Old King said
before he went mad

I try to craft stories and wonder
I try to craft them all


Somehow, somehow, the words don't flow
from the head to the pen I grip

Somehow, somehow, I cannot draw
I cannot create the work of art
that my conscience demmands so
the pictures fade

Slowly away.

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