Blank

What would you call a perpetual state of blanking out? Because that's sort of what this is about.

A shadow darts across the corner of my mind

I reach out, grasping nothing but stale air

For my mind is utterly still, empty of all thought

"Come back," I call out to the blank void

Flickering like candles, again and again

Fleeting snatches of sight and sound that only taunt me

Phantoms of thoughts I wish I could have

"I think, therefore I am,"

Then what am I, who cannot even do that?

My brain is tuned to a dead channel, strangled in a static fog

I'm suffocating, deprived of thought, of awareness, of presence, of existence

I cannot think, so I shall rot away

Author's Note

Lately I've been plagued by something I call "brain fog," a state of mind where I can't really think at all, and don't feel quite present. It's a little hard to describe, but I tried in this brief poem I wrote during some down time in class today. It's a bit lazy technique wise, but the important thing is that I wrote anything at all. I need to write more. Reviews are always appreciated!