I feel hollow, as if the pulp of my heart has been scooped out and its shell stripped of texture and color.  I have lost poetry, misplaced language. Or perhaps I have siphoned out everything I had to give and now it is time to recognize that the glimmers of my words have been luck, and that my luck has run out.

This isn’t about self-doubt.  It is a sky of words that has gone dark, a bloodless tongue.  I have searched for passion, brushing the tips of my fingers against a dream that was never meant to be mine.

This isn’t depression.  It is about groping for the shapes I believed must live beyond blindness and finding only a breathless emptiness.  It is about being lost, and losing, and the inability to see through the barriers I created to make me feel as if I had substance .

This isn’t about silence.  It is about an assault of noise that uncovers the lies stitched beneath my skin.  Sight and taste and touch are incarcerated in the definition of one single note, a note that tells me I have no more words to give.  I may want to be a scream, but I am barely a whisper.  I have been molded into a static hum of grief and blindness, unable to stretch beyond its boundaries, to find the words that color the other dimensions of being alive.

This isn’t about giving up.   I have given and I am emptied out.  The landscape has been burned to its bones, the poems I had hoped for lay brittle in the palm of defeat.  I close my eyes to escape the plague of nothingness.

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