broken fragments of thought
are what appear on the once
immaculately white paper...
spatters of black ink...
bloody evidence of a violent crime.
there's no fluidity, no focus
just stuttering broken up ideas
phrases begging to be finished
words crying from the scratches that run all over them.
Even the paper bears scars beyond the onyx stains,
as frustration led the pen to dig deep,
gouge at the frail whiteness.
It's almost beautiful in itself
this catastrophic attempt,
to undo a silence so long spent..
a self portrait of misfiring neurons
a picassoesque painting of my brain, my heart...
and yet i can't even muster up the effort to care...
no order here,
no love or hate, passion or sadness,
only numb indifference.