Muttering
Am I in denial?
I think I have only written
The way I speak a few times.
I think I'm ashamed of my voice
Or afraid of its sound - the way its so low.
I have forgotten how to write
As if it doesn't matter,
As if every word I wrote
Wasn't quite as stupid as it really was.
The world has expanded
And I am so small that
I can't even see myself,
I am the ant to life's aeroplane,
And that's the best thing I
Could come up with.
I call myself a writer
And it's hard to believe,
but I used to call myself
An artist.
I'm not sure I even know
what that means anymore.
My hair falls out
Strand by strand
It all over the paper
And it disgusts me.
Sometimes I wish I were ignorant
Or immature
Or one of those girls who's thin and drunk
Or part of that little box they keep
Trying to force me in.
And other times I wish I were
An adult, going to college,
having a job
At Disney drawing
Cells.
A differen't kind of
Cell than the one
I'm locked in.
All of my energy turns inward on myself.
The stage is set, but no one is listening
And I am all alone
Left to yell at myself.
My throat is dry
And it contracts,
And very little sound comes out.
My own creativity is too big for me
I don't know how to get it out.
My own voice is not enough for
My thoughts.
My life has been to short for all these
things that I have lived.
I am lost in the amount.
I cannot even get the pain out.
It is too big for me.