i feel as if my voice is riding on owl wings
too soft to be detected
who’s fault is that but my own?
my creativity is defected
my thoughts are as cramped and kinked
as my hair when released at night
i remember when it used to shine silk
somehow soft and bright
but now corroded from breaths
taken inwardly rather than
speak my mind
i think.
i think
of things i wish
to say but can’t because
it’s impolite or if nice
because i lack the courage
to say more than “i love you”
and say out loud that my heart tears
at the thought of losing you
to move beyond simple sayings
society has pre-created for me
so that i don’t actually have to put my thoughts
on the line because that’s not something to do over
a cup of tea.
a cup of tea
is just a starting point of mesmeric proportions
spending hours staring at the dark water
splashing in my mug listening to you ramble
wondering what i should say so i totter
on the brink of getting wet or staying dry
i can’t decide if i should jump
and if i do and drown how would the air get back in my lungs?
would you pump
your life source into me so that somehow
i might return stronger
not because i lived and died and lived again
but because i have just a little bit
more of you
inside of me.
(c) Lauren Otheim – 2011