Serrated edges

Wondering somehow, even though I can barely think

Wishing I knew what I could do.

I want to talk to people,

but I don't think I have the energy for it.

I want to draw,

but what?

Nothing is popping at me.

I want to write, but I can't feel enough to do so.

So I watch the blood pump through my veins.

Motivated.

Knowing exactly what it wants and is doing.

Pain helps me think, but I don't feel up to it.

Driving to, but the moons not out.

The music isn't hitting right, if anything it's making me sleep.

I want to do something.

I want to sing, but my voice is to tired.

Plus, I don't know what to sing

I want to write

but my soul has been cut from me and I can't find words

I wish

But with no dandelions.

I love,

but with no heart.

I move, but with no energy.

Waiting for the ideas to hit me like they once did.

But until then, I'll be a robot.

Few thoughts,

cold,

working,

but always trying to be something else.

Until my serrated edge gets sharpened into a smooth line.

Until I'm able to cut right to the soul with one stroke.