Tuneless

I am de-tuned,

Immune,

I have a muse called disillusion.

I’m icy cold,

I unfold,

And I always give in to confusion.

I write to cry,

This is why,

It’s an unexplained impulsion.

I will not mend,

Instead, I bend,

Am a paragraph of compulsion.

I am tunelsss.

I am dischord.

Nothing has an order.

I fracture easily,

And spin queasily,

It’s proof of my disorder.

When nothing rhymes,

And nothing spans,

I force my hand to word.

It sometimes works,

At best is hit or miss,

But sometimes silence is preferred.

© M.H.