Into Folklore

my thoughts dwindle into folklore

but i’m still writing them down in black ink 

& while my heart remains decayed at its core

i exist forever in words not clever as a fox but soft as a mink

when i am on drugs, i write poems 

or i speak to the bugs, who are less loathesome

rain becomes hail like bodies from the sky 

the bugs will laugh or smirk and mutter “which guy?”