It's Better to be Pissed Off Than...

A despondent drought in the
thickening of thoughts -
Seeping from the catacombs of that 

my Very Own Mind
(Cat
a
Combs)
comes that chilly wind of
utter, despairing, inadequacy.

When is this veil of
lethargic discoloring of this, the
Sepia world,
good for anything other than
crappy poetry and scowls?
(Catacombs)

Is it noble to have one’s soul ragged
and tearing at a rock in an ocean?
(Off the coast of Maine, I think.
Where the Atlantic is never warm.
The Pacific would be kinder, I’d imagine;
not to swallow the vignette whole:
The fluttering of a bird caught in a buoy's hold.
Then again,
Every God is apathetic.)
It can’t be.
There’s nothing beautiful about these
rips and tugs.
Everything rots, you know.

(...)