I’m squeezing blood
out of a turnip. My passion is stifled. My eyes are tired. I wane in the
monotony of the day. I become dust. I thirst for motivation to climb out of
this hole. There are no vines, no crevices, no cracks nor footholds. I am
faintly aware that light exists above ground. Occasionally I feel warmth
on my face. It is the only reminder that somewhere above this there is a
reason to have faith.
My perception
clarified and I hate what I saw. The world possessed such great magic, and my
poetry was revelatory of its whimsicality. But saturation of my technicolor
wanderings reduced themselves to asphalt...to greys.
“And I’m not who I
used to be.
I’m older.”
Coasting is much more
painful than growing. Two years ago I doubled over in sorrow. I spent the spring in the fetal position. The summer with and without him composed itself
across the walls of my life. Empty fall soon sauntered in. A later winter was
sore on my cheeks. The ache tore away at my muscles. I was feeble for a very long
time.
By the following
summer, I was strong. I could stand again. I could walk. I could talk. I could breathe…like a real person.
Even though I rarely feel like a real person.
Art used to be fluid in my veins.
I was not a closed room.
I was not a closed room.
I was passion.
I was picture windows.
I was not these
White Walls
I was picture windows.
I was not these
White Walls