style

my notebook is a forest fire,
a waste of breath my pens all die for,
i never win, i dont get tired,
still not sure what im alive for.

i scratch through the pages like madmen,
burning down a neighborhood,
my body is in pain but im laughing,
i dont think, i notice that im not very good.

back and forth until my neck snaps,
i cant straighten out one thought,
images in my head smear and clash,
certain things just cant be taught.

ghostly images, hammer and tong,
im invisible and part of the foreground,
empty syllogism, broken songs,
my mind is an echo of a long lost sound.