“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.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
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!
🙂
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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.