I'm either

Grounded
Or burried
Or floating

And the world is either

Unmoving
Or too fast
Or too slow

It either
Ignores
Suffocates
Or points its finger

And I feel either

Nothing
Or too much
Or numb

Can't get this page to fill
This pen is bleeding white noise

Creators are made off their failures
And achy finger joints

I'm digging untill my back breaks
Silence I won't accept

I promise
Next time I'll feel the words
I'll write
If they return

The night holds its knife
Close to the threads that hold my soul
It stretches its fingers across the blade
And sends me surging into the starry skies

Until the morning comes with its blanket
Covering all of me with its threads
Renewing me with purpose and life
Each time it stretches

With each passing hour
A frail voice consumes me
I'm left paranoid and hollow
By the time the night creeps in

Like an old stranger walking in my head
Their footsteps rattle me
Shattering the interweaving
That hold this mask in place

My nerves weaken as does my will
Until I think upon the lilies
Blooming in the sleepiest of dawns
I let go of my blanket

Before her, I was
Tipped over in the doorway,
South-facing as a loose tooth
Plucked from sore gums.

There is a affinity shared with her
In this gloomy dark hair, like graphite
Fingerprints wiped on my featureless cranium; and how

Before me, she was
Broken as the noon's fever. Her boyish
Hips fanning out, abdicating space
For my tiny anemone palms to measure their wingspan.

There is a flood of adrenaline
Simmering the film in paragoric dampness; and
Suspending us in a jellylike expectancy.

The contours and curves
That shape the heart
And the rivers that overflow
Pass through those ridges

A thrum within me
Ebbs, flows, and repeats your name
Until one day
The thunder struck

I felt the scenery come alive
It was the sound of my voice
That called to me
From inside