I am a writer but today this pen doesn't fit right.
Letters look ridiculous on paper.
What is the point?
I am far too tired,
Just crawl into bed and stay there forever.
My mind is blank.
I have no thoughts.
All my dreams are dashed,
And this time
My hope is used up.
Now none remains.

I roll over
Or did I blink?

I am a musician
But I hear no music.
My father stands before me
Screaming.
Yet I find this deafening silence.

No longer myself.

I am the magnificent moth I found today.
Wings marked with eyes
Which flutter open and closed when in flight.
Those eyes now stare forever
Because that moth is so magnificently
Dead.

I am this painting of flowers
Created to bring joy and color.
Perfect precision in each loving stroke.
She now lies water-stained and frameless,
Warped and discarded.
Utterly useless.

I am that taxi I saw,
Filled with the lives of those with dreams.
Overturned and crushed.
People splayed all over
Like arbitrary ideas
Not given a second thought.

Ironically the cemetery is across the road.
Just the place I was looking for.

I am an empty shell
And it is here that I go to be with those most like me.
Amongst the dead in their black graves.
They feel not,
See not,
Hear not,
Know not.
So we all sit in a mutual quiet
Because every single one of us
Are no longer ourselves.

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