My kind friend call me brave – Deanna Rodger

By Ant Smith (Flickr)

My kind friend calls me brave
As I still muster strength to create shapes despite my debilitated state.
My neighboring love labels me a slave
Unwilling to refuse a master
That whips and drives my soul to have (too) much to say
I say I am nothing but words
and my worth is defined in one measured line I use to pour uncontrollably and soil peaceful paper.
In my illness,
I a’m relived to empty myself of horrid toxins
But this thrashing fills me’ with more;
Dread and regret
Sadness and unrest
Fear and I’m
Lost for words (for once in my life)
Light fading quickly into a box I thought would remain unlocked for me
And despite holding the key my eyes fail and darkness borrows me
I’m spent
Empty of beautiful verse
No lines deserve my pitiful desperate words
It hurts
Like wrists sprained in the inability to gain contents of a jar sealed shut
I’ve had enough
Appetites depleted and I no longer seek to fill days filling pages and pages of scenes caught in my once wit-full gaze
Because time strolls faster than I write
And though weakened hand fights to keep up
Its falling continually
Failing miserably
Dark light engulfs
White light calls me

And now nothing looks as it sounds or sounds as it looks
Now screaming scribbles in past notebooks fade with the busy bustle that rattles glass with the impatience of london’s streets

Now, my picture is silent.

(This is a commissioned poem for the forum)

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