More than anything
it is fear
of a nameless, shapeless
form
that prevents

poems

from being written.

Nothing changes
of this room
at this time of the day
at this day of the week, month, year

for me

eyes sunken, half closed
for some laughable reason.

No *****, no music,
no glorious sunlight crashing through our ***** windows,
no touch, no words
no memories

changes anything.

I thought that
if I try,
these curtains would lift
higher than I can see
to lights and laughter

and love

and that I,
poor wretched soul wronged and neglected by
the world and
myself
would finally make it out.
And that I would wield
the power
and the control
of the gods
burning
seething with life
torching
the living
earth around me.

The stage today
is thick
with darkness
and sweat
as it always is.

I slowly rise
once again

to embrace it.