I spilled.

Sometimes I can feel everything down to the molecules of the air crawling upon my skin like slow, creeping spiders. Sometimes I feel like a cracked pot. I should hold water but I can't. It drips from me and I see my blood is waving away wateringly from this carcass.
There was a time once when I felt pure, like crystal clear river water. I could dream of places just as pure and serene. Clouds, mountains, hills, hearts, voices and lives, legs walking and running. But I feel this infection now, persistently, and I'm bent, shifted like a broken waterfall. How far can a thing fall?
There is no rise.
I see a crumbling empire. I am one myself.
Once I was a heart built on solid ground. But there is no solid, only liquid. Even stones flow. I can't feel my blood. Words are all I am.
We are the eyelashes of Time's face.
How is it that beauty can be perceived? How does breathing persist? Is it possible to feel death?
Many times I wish I were hospitalized. My bones are weary and weatherbeaten.
I wish I was a ship. But I am a vessel of nothing going nowhere.
I see nothing.

"Being born is going blind."

"I dream a highway back to you, love.
A winding ribbon with a band of gold.
A silver vision come molest my soul.
I dream a highway back to you."

I can feel insomnia needling me. You cannot know its evil sting. I pray to God it does not linger here as it once did before.

Poetry is all there is.

She once told me she was amazed at the poetry that came from my heart.
But it was lies.

I have no heart and I have no poetry.
All I am is a lost man wrestling endlessly to untangle the forest of words in me.