These aren’t my
thoughts and dreams.
I catalog a list
of sins and hopes
in blood that isn’t mine,

spilled ink
to paint every page
of my life.
They scream through me
and I cannot harness,
cannot tame,
cannot rein them in enough
to make their syllables legible,
to make their horrors sound enough
to have sense.

Why have imagination
when its legs are crippled
and its body too full of holes
to do anything but collapse?

What is the use of seeing color?

I dream and dream and dream
I cannot make myself
fly as I used to.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in On Depression, Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Stolen

  1. StarNinja says:

    A crippled imagination full of holes is pretty imaginative. Gotta say.

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