Breakdown
mocking and grim
BREAKDOWN
The words won’t come Mental fog The thickness of soup Clogs my brain. Sticky like syrup The thoughts congeal Forming clumps of non sense Breaking down, Monosyllabic. Lucidity is lost Meaning is sacrificed The poetic process Is stifled by Awkward sentences Contagious with rhymes. Concepts repeat Variations fall apart Leading nowhere, Trapped in a locked box, The diversity of language Is stagnant with remorse. Descriptions mortify Bloodless, emotions circulate Void of intensity, Flaccid, As the mind bubbles And stutters. The muse is out to lunch Remote, inaccessible, The only inspiration is frustration The blank stare of an empty page, Mocking and grim. ©2026 Stephanie M. Vargo
I think breakdown speaks a very particular language - not only something loud or impressive, but very often quiet. The desire to rest expressing itself quietly in the eternal garden.
I too desire rest. But there are miles to go before I sleep…