My handwriting used to be beautiful
Now, reduced to a scrawl
I can feel myself weakening, but
like a rushing train, cannot stop it
I merely stand by,
avoid the impact,
brace the rush of wind as it passes.

Isn’t life? That train, that rush?
The adrenaline of not knowing how
Or when, your body will betray you next?
I suppose it’s not game over until someone
Or Something
Calls time,
/&you’d never know I was here.

Everybody wants to make an impact
And I fear I have/
But not in the ways I signed up for
It pisses me off how they shrug it off
How Nothing affects them but their own

Or am I talking to myself?

I wish I didn’t have the poetry
Didn’t start to write stories
Didn’t have all these Words
And no traction
I wish I had dialed down the rosy tone &
Shook myself out of my magical carpet
Where I/ in tandem with Them/
Hurt me so often

(Authors note: )



2 thoughts on “Scattered

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