sometime between then

and now,

i became really

really

not ok.

its not just my head,

or my body,

or whatever is left

of my tattered

useless heart.

i think it might actually be

my soul.

whatever that means…

soul…

if songs

in the deep bayou

were written..

in darkened blues

about

the wasted likes

of useless girls…

theyd wail

in haunting tone

so deep,

that cypress roots

would give up

their stand

and deadwood

would float

forever on

where great

forest and music

once lived thick.

so here i am-

in ridiculous prose

writing nothing to no one

about flora

and keys,,

cause nothing,

nothing,

not one little thing.

makes sense,

any more.