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lethargic.
I bid you fun rest
The poet is asleep, see
It cannot make poems
for now, currently.
Its mind is filled
in murk and filth
it seeks to hurt
to rage, to quit.
Maybe it thinks
a poem would taste more sweet
if filled with salt
and bitter things.
Of course such thought
is quite, honestly foolish
because to drown in pity
is to admit defeat.
So once again, the poet
in frustration, heaves.
Because, says its unbitten tongue,
Poems filled with empty bubbles
tires him out, ceaselessly.