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A poem

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I sit on the edge of
existence.
Eyes peeking through
red drapes.
Rough bark reaching
over bare arms
like dry skin.
The gray sky sits silently
on empty wood,
frozen confiscated earth.
It hurts to feel.

The window peers at me.
My eyes, my body magnified
under it’s lens.
The red cloth seeps through
my veins.
My heart beats within,
yet my body is limp.
I lie like a dead soldier
inert on the cold earth.

The trees mock me
The empty paper sits before
me longing to spread its wings.

My heart beats.
It pushes on my lungs, up
my throat.
The poem sings inside of me.
It cries to be written.
I pick up the pencil.



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