Not much just my soul

I let my cascading walls of insignificant thoughts hit my toes
My hands spread open, I exhale knowing I can't feel my nose
I could shot gun another glass of wine, facilitating concentration on my inspiration
The motion of it traveling down my spine to my dirt embedded fingers bent
I use every muscle and ingenuity, literally sweating
In hopes to get applause for my corrupted mind
Pumped up for abandonment
The words never seem to be situated right