Cult of Leisure - [poem]

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I haven't written a poem in days.
I will tell myself,
"These aren't the days you write, man -
..these are the days you write about. "
Ok brain, that's cool, and sounds
metaphorical and dark, I'll take it.
but when days turn into weeks, weeks replace months -
And before I can help it, my stomach is
outside of my body - and mind,
wet, and cold, among organs
trapped like silent animals - I will tell jokes
without punchlines, and dream without color - eat food
that doesn't taste like it once did, and the ignore clouds
that sometimes don't move for hours

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