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.

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