Inklings

As the ink drains from my pen,
the notsoblankanymore blank page
cries for substance.

Leers in disgust of your wasted potential
and your achyrottenbitter attitude
and your guilt trips
and your unchecked to do lists.

I can feel my pen seeping,
staining page after page of nothing and everything
all at once with a pale blue dot of hesitance and uncertainty.

The bright white glaring through the depths of your abyss
hookingandlatching to the nooksandcrannies
of your condition.

Thrive or thrash
in
dissonance and dissociatives.

Antisocial tendencies are remedies
simultaneously delaying
my readibility,
my sensibility,
my virility.