i'm lost, swimming in the doubt of those empty eyes

i'm scared, not knowing how to act but the tremble would suffice

days are brighter outside this shell, summer, heat, and sunshine

but the fingers on this dead poet's hand is about to consign

to agree, that the meaty vine is not as creative as it has been

to adapt to the slowness of thinking

and catch up and still be satisfied with everything revolving

to stay, accept, and rebel against things changing

the purpose has changed: it's not about expressing anymore

but writing, and reflecting, and still what it is before

to let go and be freed. to catch and be ensnared

in the end, to stumble with satisfaction in my fashioned bed.