dusty nonentities

My days are gathering a same-ish hue;
they are a collection of dusty nonentities.

We keep driving into the city where the rows
of houses dance cheek-to-cheek.
They aren't right.

None of this is right.
I would prefer a home in the country.
A wallflower house, isolated,
that blends into its surroundings
by donning a gown of ivy.

It seems the ugly things of life
stick to me like spiderwebs.
Though I tear them off with shaking hands
I can still feel their ghost threads
clinging.
Leave me alone, please.
Everyone just leave me alone.

I feel corseted.
And my words are pounding behind my ribcage
full of life.
But they cannot escape their bony prison
and I don’t know how to set them free.

So my songs go unsung
because right now my lungs barely have
enough air to breathe,
let alone give life to a melody.
Even one that could fill the empty spaces
my life is crowded with.

I've lost my vim.

{It's just been one of those weeks. One where I can't concentrate and nothing gets done. I haven't been sleeping enough, my words stick in my throat, and my emotions are in an uncharacteristic turmoil. WHEE! I think I'm mainly frustrated because I've been home alone quite a few times this week and I haven't taken any advantage of the fact. I usually use my rare alone time to work on my songwriting but I just haven't felt inspired at all, lately, so I don't even try. No wonder Time hates me; I do nothing but waste what he gives me.}

{Both pictures are of Françoise Hardy and I no longer remember where I found them.}