Unfinished Poem by rhiannon fisher

unsure what's happened to my head lately. words seem an utter bore; more contemptuous than ambiguously engaging in pseudo-life. my soul's grown bored and i have nothing left to spit; a dry throat tragedy...perhaps strep?

disabled allibies; sanctified loneliness; a shrine to the homeliest has-beens. i'm feeling the weight of my place upon the system; a minute part in the grand scheme of traffic jams, bike paths and malignant tumors. the fault lines run amock through spinal chords, pulsating, ripping torrents through the chorus of this organed venue.

topped up on immortal cues; a wake end to informal clues and questions. blank; a hypothetical kick-back to the muck of mother's womb. formal tune's nothing but a fortitude.