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Writer Zero | A Poem

Hey mister model citizen,
What wild worlds are you building inside?
Why is your mind spinning
A thousand threads and none at once?
Your green guts are boiling
With dispersed ambition,
(Is that a sin)?
Other’s creation is not a blessing
But a symbol of your spoiled gift.
What can you do? Your alchemic art is
Trapped inside a jar of weakness
Wanting to be opened and spilled,
Wanting to be shattered,
But it simply lays there rotting,
Unseeping, untended, unexisting.

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