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.