Tonight heart feels unbearably glum
and my pen attempts to speak
but dither spins around her
like a dumb-witted tornado
whose point never even touches paper
and I'm not handling the draft well, at all
It's hard to look at these hands
knowing their tenderness
will never be properly defined
still I cannot resist the urge
to write them in poem,
palm's life line is supposedly long
but what about this dreariness
it's overwhelmingly gray
and my soul is laden with gloom
almost every barren day
