Someone do earthquake poems with me
because I feel like I’m slowly withering away
drying up, my fountain of youth,

creativity, tapped up and empty.
I don’t feel anything anymore though
these nerveless fingers jab away

at the keys, trying to fit
something together, but nothing.
na da, zilch, kosong.

Shake me up, toss another
shot, straight to the gut,
I’ll aim carefully for the loo

when I puke, don’t worry,
It’s all (not) under control,
and that’s okay, that’s -

alright, I’m just another kid,
young stupid and insane, cranked
up on hormones and deprivation

of sleep, sex, and soul.