Turbulent retreat

Words plunging off the page
dead on arrival.

A worn out fool
and his idiot scrolls,
brimming
with stupid waste of heart.

Stranded
from his sensory addictions.
Aching
for principal inspiration.
Rejected
by circumstance.

Walls
razor sharp,
slowly closing in
digging
into the flesh.

He torches
the empty canvas
and the dead tree
that cries in the night.

Withdrawals
to the place
that nobody found.


Det blev en rätt schysst dikt...tycker jag. Jag snodde typ två lines, den är lite klichig, lite over the top men...still.