A Secret
“There is a dream outside.
I am dark and imagined and
I can’t wake up….”
I have forgotten how I write.
My voice is with the calendar,
in the cemetery,
dusting off a bottle. The sun has moved
in on this town,
drying up oranges,
turning water to dust.
Today, I am a reflection.
A left over.
The wind is locked.
My phone is dead.
People have stopped watching.
I am underground,
away from cancer and traffic.
“…and the dream is inside, too.”
Light is nothing, not even artificial.
The birds are an alarm;
God’s warning.
If someone could crush my hand with
a hammer, I could stop all this.
The world is stretching.
I want my voice back.
Posted on March 12, 2013, in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged anxiety, BPD, Cemetery, daydreaming, death, Depersonalization, Depression, Derealization, dissociation, Dreaming, Dreams, experience, fear, illusion, isolation, journal, life, Literature, mental illness, Paranoia, poetry, Schizophrenia, social anxiety, withdrawal, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.
I enjoyed reading this piece! Thanks for posting!
Wicked piece.
I can smell the tumbleweed. Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.
Down wrote a Song
in which the
Title is the Best Description
I could ever attempt to portray:
“Beautifully Depressed”
Beautiful Work of Art my Friend!
staggeringly authentic and to the point….a hard hitting poem that overlooks your mention of losing your voice, because your voice is loud and clear, reaching out as a tendril of smoke to ensnare the reader….and it does all that too…
I am sincerely astonished by your work. The movement of your verse is itself a great force, along with the language proper.
Pingback: A Secret | Doug Alan