stars and topsoil

A lullaby, a strange, ethereal humming in my ear. I look at the thermos on the sink, and just stare at it...blankly. I'm drawing blanks these days, I can't even finish the God damn book I am reading now! I can't finish it even if my life depended on it. There's something wrong; I can't quite put my finger on it...but there is definitely something amiss. The sketch pad in my room has not served it's purpose yet. I want to draw, but nothing seems to come out. I want to draw dragons, unicorns, naked women, vikings, big ships with black sails, sailing into nothingness, horses, I dream of horses, but I can't seem to draw one. Not even a single hoof, skeletons, muscles, hair, it's like juggling with chain saws, I take a pencil, and nothing comes out...I want to stab myself with that Mongol number 2 pencil. The pages laugh at me, I can hear them and they seem real. The book just stares back at me, her pages a stranger. I'm a nobody, looked upon by a stranger and I am dumbfounded. I am a complete waste of space in a room cluttered and constipated, a den with everything huddled on their asses, chin on their knees; snuggled and a damp feeling is on my buttocks. The flourescent light would create shadows from the darkest nooks and crannies of my mind...the branch sways like a withered hand waiting for an opportune time, to snatch me, maybe my sketch pad? or stab me with that Number 2 pencil...I need to get out of the bedroom more often.

:::::