My poetry's hollow and null
And like my life it is quite dull
So I ramble and cry
And I wish to just die
While I ponder why I've not been culled.

And yes even so
I continue to write words
With no direct form

Rhyme scheme, structure, they mean very little
To a person who has no control of their life
And apathetically watches as he carries on strife.
And in a rotted hole, that even then grows brittle
Keyboard sculptures of english language he whittles
The daisy chains he once spoke are rife.
No conclusion he often sees, but the glinting beauty of Simon Bette's knife.
And the jumbled mass of words transmital.

Regret grows heavy in the writers head.
It is natural depression, in a broad sense.
And added are the apathetic thoughts and scratches
And these words have no purpose, no connection or thread
However they are what keep me here and so hence
They in a way cover the wounds with patches.

And this poem is an arc of my thoughts.