it won’t come.
Sometimes it’s as easy
as sitting down
and everything spills out.
it’s like drawing blood
from a dry vein.
Searching for it
collapses what might’ve been useful,
and then it spills,
but it spills
in the wrong place,
and it can’t be used.
A bruise of words,
clotting up internally,
leaving me
the only thing marked
by something I feel
should mark the world.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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