story playing

sitting so stale and breaking out
of no mold but comfortable in the same
actions every day and repeated all
through the night like a movie set on repeat
which starts over again and again and has no
positive impact of a place to come from across
the hours you wonder where all the time
went and then the weeks and then the months
and nothing new was tried so there is no
song which means this right now and there is no
story which can complete the scene and there is
no painting which can show the colors that
you mean and no dance which can show the
place that you are coming from so the
next chapter of the book may never
even arrive

About jaybeasley2

a writer, a painter, a poet, a wordsmith
This entry was posted in poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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