here I lie

when was the last time
I cried?

maybe that is why
words no longer roll off
my impatient tongue
and spill across blank pages
like sunlight adorned with
the oddities of a kaleidoscopic heart.

Instead, I am drowning in debris,
shattered glass and cheap neon beads,
mirror shards reflect my inability
to colour these heavy, broken dreams.

stale stories drip and smear
into sameness, inky disappointments
always fades to black, they
pool under hunched shoulders,
no wings or will to reach the
surface, swirling storms of
lost letters brush against the rib cage,
 – shut up, give up, not good enough –
jarring words hook into the bone
and pulls my milky irises and emptied mind
beyond the reach of the pale moon light
here is where the small-fry,
in all the glory of obscurity lies.