Hemlocked Heart

I’ve written one poem in the last eight days
A gobbledygook of oddities that claw into the dull grey
With flashes of color that hollow my heart, a beast that has long left me detached.
I suppose I ought to forgive and bite into passion for my part,
But if I dwell on the unnecessary, become consumed, condemned by reflection
What will become of me?
A question of unprecedented self indulgence, I know, I know,
But I have need that cloying self indulgence to function,
But functioning has never been my strong suit
Certainly not one steel of metal nor tweed,
More like a crunched polyester number content with wrinkles, rips and warps.
I ramble and babble in circles and spirals
Never a clear change that will give my soul revival.
So I wait, in insufferable cliches hoping the true me, authentic me,
Whatever bullshit that may mean, has a chance to shine one of these days.