September 28, 2009
No matter how hard
I scrub
I can't
seem to clean the dark rings
from the inside
of my coffee mugs

And somehow I never find
to think
or be
or dream, even
for my nights hollow
hours of unrest

My work gets done
and I'm holding hands with a zombie
during the day we drift,
and my heart beats for the two of us
ravenously, and I'm searching for
anything to warm stoney flesh, excite
dead nerves, or
fence this
hungry, nomadic heart

but we're finding no comfort
in place nor time
no time-

and each lifeless day
as the color fades,
my eyes strain
and all I see are
coffee stains

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