If I could say something to you,
I wouldn’t just speak the words-
I would scream them at the top of my lungs.
I would break my own windpipes
tears would stream down my face as I rest the back of my head upon the clouds;
and I would place my feet back atop the ground
once held together, miraculously shattered as I touch down
When I’ve chosen to keep it all inside of my body,
my soul abandoned it’s colours.
Like an ocean run dry I was fruitless and confused,
wandering helplessly in prairies deserted by grass,
water dripped from no branch,
no frog let out a merry croak,
and if a single cricket did chirp the noise would be lost upon my ears
which I have so adeptly covered in an attempt to phase it all out.
The walls of my closest conquests close in,
like a tourniquet put on too soon,
it’s cutting the metaphorical blood flow from my veins
and leaving me to practice drawing them back on with any pen I could find.
“Don’t worry,” I told anyone who would ask;
“It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll be in tip-top shape again tomorrow”.
The lamps all turn off mid sentence
leaving me wandering the halls with breath baited by oxygen just outside of the painted black windows
desperately grasping for anything,
just one thing.
Any old thing would be helpful, but please don’t leave me left in the halls of solitude,
incredible as it may seem for some to have no intervention
you know little of true concern
until you’ve been pointedly remarked upon as cold and bleak as the barren grounds you tromp upon.