In the empty spaces of my soul, there is a knocking.

A knocking.

A knocking.

This knocking won’t leave me alone.

 …and in the flirtations of constipated thought forms, I can’t seem… I’m unable to keep up. I can’t find it. I can’t find this running thought that I’m looking for.

It’s running away from me. The name on the tip of my tongue. The thought that I’m looking for…

It’s running away from me, and I can’t keep up with it.

If I could, I’d rule the world.

If I could, I wouldn’t be banging my head against the wall trying to find it.

I want to break down and cry, but I heave dry tears and salt flats. I’m 30 pounds heavier than the last I bridged the gap. The last time I did anything that felt at all worthwhile.

I can’t seem to feel… proper… anymore.

I’ve covered my face with a veil of snark and pomp.