Wrapped up in the absurdly mundane
moving from day to day.
In the task and function of things to get done
not living a life at all.
Filling up rooms with stacks of blank pages
so fully I can no longer get in.
Quieting my voice with the nothing of numb
until there was nothing left to say.
There was something hiding under the bed
to its rumbling I have awakened.
Eyes still blurry, thoughts not quite clear
yet the pain in my heart is alive.
Shaken from the fuzzy, little warm cocoon
where I had seemed to have formed an existence.
Torn from the quiet and deafening silence
that I had imposed on myself.
With an urgency I feel the need
to carve, to scratch, to scrawl.
To leave indelible evidence
that I am awake and can feel.
The pain and ache in this poet’s soul
is screaming and tearing down walls.
The need to be heard is no longer as strong
as it is for what needs to be said.
This is about me filling up the pages
that line the walls of this room.
About creating the space in which I want to live
filled with the beauty that is sometimes pain.
No longer silent, I cannot go back
even if forward brings imminent change.
I will carry these pages held close to my heart