Words, they fall like stars

Where are the words
where are my words
ideas,
and thoughts
that come to me at a table by myself
in the food court of the Westfield mall

Where is my ability
i've found inability

Squeezing blood from a turnip
used to seem like a possibility
now I'm mute
and without these frail poems
i'd be crippled too

Every day is a battle that everyone is fighting
right now, mine is with the keyboard
mine is with my plans
Mine is with the words which fall into white space
so lazily

Where is the life in my words?
Gone, with so many other things
Gone, like my pastel set and drawing pads

Gone
My desire is not
but perhaps my inspriation is

So where are the words
that are ghosts on this page
that are dates and titles of the past
Everything i've already written is not a diary
but a cemetary

In vain I wait for the meteor shower tomorrow
cosmic events are not even half as spectral
by myself