I want to create.

I want to weave my sorrows
into something that’s bearable to behold.

I want to be still-
like the stones my Nana mourns,
I want to rest beneath the dirt
(but I’m scared I’d be too restless
to lie peacefully).

Like the little world in my room,
(and the gaping maw of my bloodline)
I am ****** to feed the cycle that came before me
and rest.

My joints creak under the weight
of this petty mind.
My eyes bag under the weight
of these sleepless nights.
Yet still,
my hands ache for something just out of reach-
a longing for something more than I am now.

But words aren’t enough for this untouchable need.