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Updated: Apr 13
I can’t try if the lead won’t write.
I can’t live with a fever in the sun.
Can’t suffocate full of atmosphere.
Can’t breathe full of lies.
Can’t stop spinning my top on all I’ve missed.
Can’t stop thinking,
what if?
if I could sit in the sun with a fever
if I’d burn so bright the light could never go,
what if?
If I could think in just for now
not in jammed film strips
playing a dead scene
waiting to be seen.
She’s a hack in small dreams, they say.
Medicate yourself,
see how it feels then.
It’s all small talk
never big enough to be heard.
The playback button rewinds
to the parts I want to skip.
That place knows too much
said the mimic I’ve worn so long.
Impossible to move forward
on a script that won’t play.
Will I always be sad at the end of the day?