Conversions

I don't have a topic, but on times in forced solitude, I feel the passion for writing like I once had.
It's a struggle. I don't get enough of this to even call it a practice I partake.
All I have are the clicks and settling of this crumbling hangar. To screw, nut and bolt my way through this four-year sentence.
I feel so dry, the dust has caked to my glasses. Fuck, and it's flowing through my bloodstreams.
The gallons of words spewing from my mouth, cannot be measured in ounces.