no new thoughts, no new music, no new love.
no new films, no new lust. walking the same paths you have always known,
lost and perambulating through the forest of internality.
who can save you? the poems you write to work your way out
aren’t even a new type of bad. don’t lead you out.
become, themselves, lost in the forest.
you search for something to stop you from going around in circles and can’t find it.
tears roll down your face, you begin to know that in your heart of hearts,
it will never be better than this.
maybe the eternal stress of the life before wasn’t that bad.
at least it gave you something to do, something to say.
an escape from this type of soul-crushing drudgery.
feel the change. feel the revolution in the air.
breathe it, and know it is the same air you have always been breathing, and always will breathe.

the comfort that you’ve known from your own chained, cushioned, bathed soul for aeons. and will always know