I feel like my mind is a towel wrung dry.
I have nothing left to offer.
Desiccated.
I have questions in my mouth
that roll around like glass marbles.
A dangerous choking hazard, surely.
Spit them out, spit them out.
Then there they are, the questions,
as long, afternoon shadows
that stretch farther than their reality
but no one answers them,
because no one looks down at the floor but me.
The world owes me answers.
I cannot be content with a simple yes or no
because I want the truth,
which will not come packaged in a single syllable.
Desiccated.
There is nothing left to be taken.
I feel like my mind is a towel wrung dry.
"that stretch farther than their reality"
ReplyDeleteI had a chin-rubbing moment upon reading that line.
It's moments like this I'd really like to give you a hug.
ReplyDeleteBecause it doesn't even matter if you don't need one or I don't like them.
I just want give you one.
(I hope that it makes you feel better, but I'll always come back to the thought it doesn't.
I'll give you another one.)