n1 still stiffness.

I cannot think.

Sorting my clothes in neat squares,
my food as constant repetition,
illusion of satisfaction.

In the numbing gray cold
I profess a nervy sanity
while my legs run
away from my heart.

Consciously scrutinize
the surge of rooted resentment
because of homemade
loneliness.

Expecting genuine serenity
from counterfeit affection,
esteemed grandeur
for motionless silence.

Breaking.

I cannot think.