It's harder to express my feelings through written word

everything I write dies

like a plant you buy and water once.

If it survives

it does so because it grows wild

and parasiticly takes root in my mind.

So many stories

rattling around in an empty skeleton;

one that lacks the facilities to pen them.

Regretfully

green leaves take over

growing up through sun-bleached ribs.

Fern and flora burst

through hollowed eye sockets, trailing over sharp cheek bones

until the yellow-white form is fully overtaken by that which it could never sustain.

My greatest fear

to be engulfed by ideas that my head could not contain.