"Write a poem," he says,
but what if there's no use
because all the best parts of me
are already used up
and I'm just a crinkled piece of paper
left to blow away with the wind.
I'm empty, nothing left
to inscribe on my pages,
no story remaining to tell,
and so I wait for a strong gust
to come and take me away,
anywhere, just away from here,
because I can't take this place anymore.
"Write a poem," he tells me,
but what if I can't
because my voice has been
taken away from me, and
I don't see a way to transcribe
what doesn't exist. It just isn't
possible, is it? So I'll sit here
and cry this ink onto my pages,
but to be completely honest,
I'm no longer attempting to create
a coherent story because I'm just
a used up, wrinkled slip of paper,
being thrown about without concern.
"Write a poem," he says,
but my words are all used up.