Poetry is something I cling to
something that fills me to the brim with light that was once so dim
I was once so dim. ..
climb out of my hole in bed, where my lingering cough tickles my throat
Where every twitch and wiggle leads to a groan and the clearing of throat
twitch and twiddle my fingers, bat my lashes. ..
and climb. So free.
No cough itches at my pipes when I breathe
no painful ache in my stomach when I turn
no tear in the eye that blinks into the pillow from the pressure at my sight
no gurgle of my intestines for more food no sharp pain in my feet from cramping no shudders from the cold I subject myself to out of neglect
Poetry. None of this sad reality. More of this beautiful, thoughtless fantasy.