My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.
My mind is running away from me.
I think I need a pre frontal lobotomy.
Thoughts that are stuffed in every place,
Wedged in cracks or any empty space.
I need some time. Time to think
Or I may have to turn to drink.