(“i’m stepping in the heart of this here” - feel good inc.)
used to
write several poems
a day—in the
margins of my
notes, in my sketchbook, on
study pages, wherever
inspiration struck—but
now i am stopped
up. (foot stuck in a hole,
hand stuck and numb, pulse
slowing down down down) halted
at the fork
in the road, looking back,
checking to see if
another stares back
at me. and even if no one
does, there is a shame that
crawls up my spine and
burrows under the lip of the
back of my skull (pressing
right up against my brain),
waiting,
waiting,
waiting—
always suffocating.
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