I cannot feel anything right now
but I am not numb
I am cold and the black spaces
are filled with wires of anger and confusion
but I am not numb
I am a butterfly in a glass jar
I am forced into this place and the walls
are too thick for me to mold and bend
and in other ways destroy
to be free
to see the fireworks of clear, icy shards
fly all around me in a sonic boom
maybe even end this agonizingly long sentence
that no one wants me to pen.
Life is too short
Life is too fucking short and yet
I spend my eight hours
being worn down
and maybe someday I will turn to page 398
instead of channel 76…77…
surrendering to sugar-coated couch cushions
and one click away
Maybe I am lost
Maybe I am really just that unpopular
Maybe I am just this doomed to the fact
that failure isn’t an option
Maybe this is my fate
Maybe this is my midlife crisis
It’s such a shame I’ll only be 30,
not wise enough to have watchful,
peaceful eyes shining as they close the coffin,
the kind of eyes that know before you do
I am not numb
and I am not crazy
because there is no way that I am the only one
closing this notebook tonight
no possibility that there really are bubbles
behind closed doors
If there’s no bush to beat around,
have I been placed in the wrong garden?
No
I can’t be numb
when time grudgingly knocks off
another calendar square
Maybe I’m imaginary
Maybe I’m painstakingly easy to control
Maybe I am an outlet of arms and legs
but I am not numb yet.