White Walls

 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 passion.
 I was picture windows.

 I was not these
 White Walls