When you confuse glass and ice
(on the deadbeat highways of your world)
and your eyes conspire the blue filter of blindness
things take on the tragic effect
of a battle lost to circumstance
where words no longer console your seething desperation
to be young and dumb (again.)
You swear you'd do it right this time;
smiling after the proper cues in conversation
and ending each statement with nothing but a period.
Another case of "the grass is always greener"
but you no longer have to experience
the dribble of today's youth
and mistake it as something you could admire
or possibly compare your failure to.
Your mourning chair awaits
your last chance to justify your chicken scratch
in the feeble attempt to capture the melancholic beauty
of the life's passion you've suffered with but never fought to keep.
Collapsed, dead, six months later
with a six word memoir.
Your life wasted and thoroughly expressed.
Writer: suffered life-long writer's block.