I have become a hollow shell, A body where a being used to dwell. Things that seemed real just months ago, Are now mere shadows on the snow. No room for passion or delight, Just boredom, apathy and fright. The die is cast, the pattern set, But I’ll no longer take the bet. From human eyes I always hide, A random pixel cast aside.
This happens to me quite often — for a short while or forever — I lose all ability to write. Not when it comes to work; I suppose, but when it comes to expressing myself. Like the example below, for instance; it represents something remotely like what I want to say, but neither has metric consistency, nor any other valuable attribute that I can imagine:
(And I’m only posting it because lately I’m too busy to “tweet.”)
Two random hearts collide and intertwine, A blind embrace that feels at times divine, Like purest cocaine or the finest wine, Yet love’s a tumor that is not benign.
One heart will worry that the union’s wrong, The other will attempt a grasp that’s far too strong, And even if together they, in truth, belong, The passion’s embers may not last as long.
And so the symptoms of withdrawal begin, But who’s to blame you that you let the wrong one in? The one whose feelings are, alas,* becoming thin, Will leave, despite dreams of what could have ever been.
*You know you’re desperate when you resort to the use of “alas.”