Sickening

I'm not in the mood
To write a thing.
There's a pain
For each thought
That goes wandering.
A blank long stare
Such weary eyes
Alack of me
To recognise.

If I only cared
As I sink, sag down.
Then maybe
I could frown.
I sit so still
Mind P's and Q's
Never to speak.
Just stare at shoes.

Safety that way.

I'm not in the mood
To write a thing.
I slip. I slide.
I frightfully spin.
So pen makes marks
Ink stains words.
The efforts made.
Am I yet heard?

Written while slipping and not
at all wanting to give up to
it so I defiently write.
This was the result.

7th August 2005