I would draw
but my hands shake
I would speak
but my throat is sore
I would get up
but then I’d have to let go
of the comfort of my room
the only think I can do
is write
and so I write
about anything
about everything
about washing machines
and my spin cycle mind
empty bottles that look full
and the disappointment they cause
puppets forcably dancing on strings
and how I’m not the one moving myself
about flowers picked and left to die
and the temporary, forgettable beauty
I would speak
but I can’t find the right words
I would

but I can't