Zoning out at Work Vibes

Dramatic

I'm not trying to be dramatic

or long-winded.

I just want to create something beautiful.

I see the world and miss the beauty of it all.

I used to stare at the clouds and wonder how exactly I would paint them.

What colors would I use?

Which technique would work best?

The fading light of the sunset used to mean more than just 6 pm.

The moon didn't have to be red or golden to be worthy of my time.

Worthy of my ogling.

Worthy of a picture and the concentration it takes to get the perfect one.

The last time I played in the rain, it was someone else's idea.

I used to read like the words were food and I was starving.

Now, I have begun to heal, and escaping into a book is not so easy.

I am losing the desire to write.

Just when the quality was getting better, too.

The biggest issue might be that every word and emotion is already on a paper somewhere.

I only know English, and still, all of the poetry has been written. 

All of these tears have filled someone else's eyes for all of the reasons a person might cry.

I never doubted that I would change.

I never feared the person I might become.

I have always known that I would be gentler than the people who came before me.

My ancestors did not raise happy or healthy children.

They also did not raise many smart children.

All of my best qualities fade like a sand castle at high tide.

My wide-open eyes have begun to see only what is in front of me.

The possibilities are no longer endless and I wonder. . . 

Who is responsible for the dimming of my light?

I held it so close to my chest for so long.

Did I suffocate it,

Or did my mother find the flicker of the flame within the darkness she created?

I don't know how to end this properly.

Do I mention the long-gone desire for death, or rest?

Do I mention how badly I want to see the turn of the season, every season, every year?

How much longer can I ramble about this feeling in my chest without letting it consume me?

It would be so easy to fall back into the pit I have crawled out of.

To jump off the cliffs I have scaled on my healing journey.

It would be so easy to decide that this piece of solitude I hold was not worth the bloody hands required to hold it.

This isn't really a poem, but the poem ends here. 

I will sit here, steeping in the almost-sorrow,

and leave you to forget everything I have written.

Because it is all so sad,

and you deserve to smile again.