Untitled 3.20.2008

Old notebooks with old thoughts.

And if we run out of space, we'll write in the margins.
If we run out of air, we'll call for help,
and build a bubble that will keep us full of oxygen.
My bubble is empty ; my prison is a single bed.
Has anyone said this before? (Nothing new under the sun)
My scratchy writing makes my voice indecipherable
My fears in hiding make my eyes seem so volatile.
(Always something crazy going on)
Your hands must tingle from the pressure of your emotions -
I know mine do.
And when it's cold, I feel numb,
so at least then I have an excuse.
And if it's warm, then I formulate responses from the dark places in my head ;
they don't make sense.
(I don't make sense.)
Layers of cellophane and plasticine - plastic surrounding my frame.
It's so dry here.
I did my homework, your Honour -
I scribbled my confessions in the perfect way,
a mix of U.S. and U.K.,
with u's to go around, an excess of proper spellings.
Dip in, if you feel as though you can breathe,
but my bubble is empty,
and my prison is this single bed.
The bars are the memories in my head,
and here I shall remain, contained,
until the finish line sets me free.

-Fin