Couldn't think of a hook.
Would you still read it?
Before I believed in the blinding of pain
My hours were solid but crumbling, already
And in the weeks of a passive life thereafter
There were nothing but wooden tears falling down my hollow face.

Those days I had a feeling
Once risen like a phoenix I would
Dazzle you all with a talent unmatched
Wring out my misfortune
Into consumable art
Get applauded and loved
Revered for the serious take on it. Life.
The lack of time
The unfair highs and troughs winding on.

After all these days
Pain resurfaces only as dull.
Mere sickness
Lacklustre in character,
No storybuilding.
Nothing that could absolve
Anything that I will ever think or do.
Breathing my voice back
However
In an imminent curfew drill
Marred by a sinking sense of doom
I wonder
What do I make of it?