$5 a poem

I cannot speak
because I’m feeling.
my voice belongs to another.
my feelings speak of her.

as I slowly climb the stairs
with my voice quietly settling back in its place
I notice the loneliness
of the paintings on the wall.
art can be vacant
like the inside of the shoe
while the humans howl
in the sun.

I walk into my room
and a tidy bed awaits.
it certainly wasn’t expecting me
this late
or my new habit
as I pour a glass of wine
and open up my journal.

I have my voice back
but I still cannot speak.
I’m feeling
the echoes in me
as I bring the glass
to the horizon of my eyes
and paint the walls residing
in my mind
on paper.

poetry is what happens when
nothing else can.

you must not ask.

“What may I do?” at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said, “You must not ask.”

–  Lewis Carroll