when the inside is at work

Stashed back forcibly I am. It is sickening to not have her in vicinity. I feel smothered beyond reckoning. Jotting incessantly is a decent mate in these wee hours of trash. Yet I do not think it is. I am sure not. Each word here ogles at me, spilling blood and nastiness on my naked face. This is psychologically being inert. For it does happen to many people, but in such breath as to smudge all the ongoing, I bet I am the zeroed one with the ugly fate.

Now, you could hang me for this one. For whenever I pen, I pen but of self loathing. Her non presence is consequential of wiping off of creativity and of hollowness in depth as well, in that I can only narrate the underneath rather than inventing to entertain. So trivial are my tendencies, so jammed is my thinking chain, that if ever I do surface with something like this, it only stinks of a wet wound instead of exhibiting solace of prose. If you can’t see, I am gasping for some oxygen now, I am missing my beats. Is it the fluffiness of love, has mushiness drenched me enough now. Am I soaking in the candy floss, seeking her affection?

I should eat my breakfast first for the transitory tongue pleasures assist quite in shying away from the robbing thought of her. I should gobble some English staple shit. That ought to mend some. (The undercurrent: That tramples miserably too. the cereals, the bread, even the celebrated jasmine tea is insipid to the core. this is not a material world for nothing material can cajole you, when the inside is at work.)