I am often empty-handed
when I approach the daily need
of writing.
it is a function
installed somewhere in my body
that has no off-switch.
but I am often unsuccessful
in carrying out its coded
I archive borrowed words,
sentiments from
the under-sea souls,
lives deep as trenches, it seems.
they make beauty
appear effortless.
I reach deep, I dig
into whatever resides
in the hollow shell of my body,
but all I draw up
is sand. not even
the castle-building kind,
but a coarse handful
of what might be glass
one day.
I’m not there to see
what time does to useless things,
so what will it do
with these hands, this
empty mouth that cannot hold a good
I am at a loss, I don’t know
what I have to offer.
no one bothered to teach me
that creation involves sacrifice.
I wasn’t made
for this, and yet
I am for nothing else.

Inspired by my un-profound-ness, lol. 🙂


2 thoughts on “profound.

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