I hate days like this.
So much to say.
and no tongue to say it.
I sit idle, mute, helpless.
I hate myself for my silence,
even more for my failure.
I am nothing if I cannot write.
I am no writer if I cannot speak.
Words are my enemies today
The power they hold in their
definitions stifling me.
Shrinking before their confidence, their
doubtlessness of their place:
they hold no pity for me
still uncertain of where I stand.
I am hollow now. I hold no
mind, no dream, no soul.
I stare out at the sunset.
It’s beauty beyond my grasp.

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