Another unabashed self-loathing trickle through a mind that constantly writes about not writing. Wish you were here.

In dark clothes and moist hands
There is a heart stopping
and I think that it may be mine.

Not the obese diner of
sugar or the crushed veins
from sweet fried steaks
but a taint of regret
and the lost skills that
once loved my bent fingers
over typed lines and loose sayings.

There was once talent in
these hands, if I can be
so bold as to say that they
once handled a wrench,
making the lug nut
words screech under elbow
bent to move their stubborn
treads.

But I lie now sweating in
a bed that is too hot,
a monkey with an hour glass
lamenting sand in the bottom
and swearing at the grains
on top as I stare at the
pile forming the remainder
of my air.

I move like a glacier,
only an inch a year,
baring down on
washed dishes thought
and supper creativity.

Here in the evening
crickets yell at me to
sleep.

GO TO SLEEP!

and my mind tells me that
there are only a couple
hours left in order for
me to construct a dream.

Like English 102
where my interpretation
was lost on a hack with
a doctrite and mind full
of pink and purple letters
I find that there is little
cause for alarm, that regret
will take its place and fuel
the coal eater while I roll
in a flannel sheet and plead
with myself to be talented again.