I am here again, without, without, without.
There is no poetry. There are no visuals.
I can’t even lift a book without my wrists
wilting backwards. I am fatigued. I have
been flayed. I’ve withdrawn from art from
the dance within, from color. I’ve pulled
back from dreaming aloud. I am here,
again…but this turn around the bend is
much wider than I can logically comprehend.
It is taking me that much longer to wrap
around my consciousness that I may never
be the same person. What will be around
the corner, I dare to ask myself, when I
should be sleeping at three in the morning?
Will I see rays of sunlight triumphantly
pierce through this hellish purgatorial
state I am in? Will I be content in knowing
that all within me has changed, and will
it be for something better? It is hard to
envision, when nothing seems to
want to grow in me again. When I
am afraid of expressing my numerous
vulnerabilities. I am here, you see…
and I have been here before,
but this time it is worse. There are
no words, only for me to say that
I am without…without…without.