In an effort to avoid over-explaining myself and essentially ruining this poem, I’ll briefly describe its history with two short phrases: staying up late; being interrupted. Enjoy.
Faceless voice crawls in my ear And paints familiar pictures. Nausea and waiting keeps me quiet With invisible smiles to speak with. The moon slides by like a quarter for gum Until all I see are fires. Drifting brightly; why is it hard To catch them in the dark? Blink on as I rush forward; Blink off when I get there. I stretch my hand in front, But I can’t tell how far. A space for me to speak in Closes when I start. And all the graphemes pile up Unspoken. Thank God.
Thank you for reading! Have a wonderful day!
Text by Kimba Wisotsky. Photo from Google Images.