Cotton mouth comes from a desert my poetry has been
dehydrated from. When once love, happiness, anticipation
quenched the desire of my thirsty words, their footing has
now slipped into sand that denies their release.
My muse, a well that has run dry. My motivation, a
damsel in distress. My desire, burnt by an enemy,
(me) the arsonist.
Dry, cracked ground serves as paper for these cactus
like thoughts, penetrating, poking, a mind that imagines
her future through a mirage.
It's unanswerable, it's unknown, it's not up to her
to stay alive through illusions that give her false hope-
to sip on.
