i write myself. for myself.

the reasons are (sometimes) forgotten when inspiration threads from a spindle

and draws blood from a self-inflicted prick 
of my ring finger

only i don't fall asleep. 

but something in me dies. 
and i could cry when i feel 

nothing

while desperately searching for,not the words,
but the something.


when i need the words the most, they leave me too (after the meaning).

and i'm left alone
to find the hope within
my own heart. 

i am lost within myself.