Unable to think,

Or write,

Or talk,

To explain any of it.

The energy,

Or want,

Or care,

To do so won't come.

Besides,

(In all truth,)

It's probably

For the best anyway.

How many ways

Can be described

About breaking

And losing hold

On my last

Remaining

Marbles knocking

Into one another?

Or how life is

Imaginatively

Hurtful, and it's

In no hurry to stop?

I mean,

What's the point.

It's not a new story, and 

Dealing with your own is enough.