Saturday, September 14, 2013

Comatose


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Was I happier then?
What does it take for me
to see, to experience,
to feel inspiration--
to feel anything?

I keep making the same mistakes.
I need to take things slow,
slow.
But I feel like someone has got my hands
bound, and is pulling me forward
like a fish from the water.

When did my pores become dry?
When did my soul become rusted?

Why was I so much better at this
when I didn't understand anything?

I can no longer speak;
I cannot find a way to get
thoughts from mind to air.
I stutter. Splutter.
Words trip on my tongue.

And now, my soul,
my mind, my pores--
my heart and I
have been silenced.

The question that lingers:
should I rather feel
everything violently,
or become anesthetized?

And once brought on,
is it irrevocable?

--Emily
 currently listening to: I Can Barely Breathe by Manchester Orchestra