How frustrating. By the time I reach the end of a sentence I have forgotten the beginning. My everday actions seem futile and absurd. The projects I start Fall to the ground Stagnate And go unfinished. My mind is dying from within Defeating itself at every turn And at odds with only itself It knows no mercy. In stubborn, faithless fury It has no give. The days pass and it drains my fragile body Sacrificing the flesh to sustain the core The immaterial That has such material consequence. I have library fines up to my eyebrows All for books I can’t find the concentration to read. If I was wise Or could find the energy I would return them. I don’t have the money to spend On wasted attempts at intellectual purpose. It has become difficult to tell Whether I have simply reached my limits Or if the boundaries have tightened around me. Either way I rise up And they thrust me down. Holding me beneath my own sinking waters Until I remember my place. My dreams for the future seem supreme arrogance I wanted to teach But I fear now I am unable even to understand. My self pity is cloying. I wonder if I taste as poisonous as I feel. It matters very little This blankness has taken Whatever remained of my sex drive. To be truthful The idea of being touched makes me vaguely ill. I am relatively sure that, for now at least, I have reached out for another body for the last time. It is an odd lack of feeling That has come in to replace the overwhelming need I once felt. The mania of want and invincibility is gone. It has fled and all that is left behind Is this quiet child image of self With its/her ineffable flood of questions. She does not seem to understand How little “Why?” matters at this point. I try to drug her into sleep Pills and fiery liquid by the bedside But she will have none of it. Her confusion reigns supreme Unanswerable Purposeless And as binding as any chain.