…
… …
see,
im struggling to even write poetry these days.
everything
is like taking a deep breath only to find out that you’ve actually been
trapped inside a void and there’s nothing in your lungs
and nothing to exhale.
id like to think that i still have my good days
and really, i do,
its just that they get kind of fuzzy when im stuck in afternoon sunlight
wondering what happened to all the people that are usually around me.
i feel like a ghost in my own home
and driving ten over the speed limit doesnt even make the
bitter black box in my chest beat,
so maybe ill push fifteen--
and suddenly,
im going fifty-five in a thirty-five zone because maybe itll make me feel alive
knowing how fast im going away from the buildings that makes me feel
like a ghost,
like im drifting.
maybe the less i eat the better ill feel,
but either way theres some kind of guilt weighing me down,
cement blocks tossed into a lake.
i cut my hair to lighten up,
and its been at least three weeks
since i wrote a bad space metaphor about a boy
with a galaxy smile and, ****.
there goes that, restart the count.
fifty-five miles per hour away from memories that
my mind twists into negativity at eleven-- both evening and morning, really.
fifty-five miles per hour away from the people that might just
make me feel alive again,
but fifty-five miles per hour away from the places that thin me out until im nothing more than
a cartoon ghost outline,
running from pac man.