Gravity feels like a demon right about now,
gripping at the skin sagging below my
turquoise tinted irises,
digging its pointy claws into my eyes,
shooting branches of red through
white skies of despair.
I’m hunched over words painted in
desperation, my eyes
but the pink prongs behind in seeming disconnect,
no longer intact with
the cognitive functionality of
I break the repetitive reruns
of my racing eyes.
My paper still awaits the grace of my pen
but nothing appeases it.
My hands lie still, my firing neurons
now in hibernation,
my brain activity
reduced to nothing.
I do not walk,
I do not move,
am I even here,
at this hour?
The demon’s claws have slinked further,
staking claim to unguarded territory,
territory let down in deprivation
and now forced up in a
In its claws, my virtues bleak,
the intrinsic motivation once sourcing my fame
hidden in the devil’s woods,
present, but invisible,
a ghost bound to purgatory,
the corpse present in a six foot hole,
but the soul somewhere unbeknown.
My paper awaits,
but I make no move.
My brain is numb.
I am officially burnt.