I try to write;
I am numb and my mind
Is filled with empty metaphors
Unable to withstand their own
Weight, exploding and
Imploding interchangeably
By the bubbles of void.

Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.

The blinking lights
Seem to form a pattern
Hiding unknown mysteries,
No doubt. And yet,
I cannot wonder why
I felt this way before.

At least I have Wes here,
Live. The jazz fills the air,
Healing the stubborn bugs
Plaguing my soul, if only
For a little while. Play!