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The Fuel

Dead talk.

Beaten down Chevrolet with no fuel, my mind dead inside. Leather seats razored with stringy threads stuffed underneath. Gave me bad memories as a dried out hyacinth on the windowsill.


Empty words, no depth, bad synonyms, and low life. Trajectories to failures and barren future with no risible path on good times ahead. My mind throbbing with painful thoughts.

Anemic but diabetic with guttural voice as if I've chain-smoked for two lifetimes. Greying hair, dandruff and scaly skin. The life taken out of me, was the image visualized from just a dead vehicle.


I hated Volkswagens.


Back mirror took up my visual space with no prospectus of changing lanes. Stuck midway between heaven and hell, my life stagnant with the in-betweens. 

Novice writing without a guiding light and not good enough.

Projects unfinished with no time to write, but working title typed out. Running on empty with no fuel to go on.


Just write.




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