Lost is whenevery direction
seems
wrong
when the acid
in your stomach
churns
no matter what you do
when you question
your value
your contribution
and the paper
before you
remains
blank
when the hand
you extend
is not embraced
and the hand
on your shoulder
slips away
quietly
Lost is neither dark
nor light
for the feeling
transcends
the day
and the night
lost is being hungry
with
no desire
to eat
lost is being cold
with
no energy
to reach
for the blanket
two feet away
and lost has an aura
quarantine
if visible
would read
so in this state
state of
quarantine
one looks
looks upon
the quiet door
visitors of white
sometimes light blue
or green
washed cotton
standard fare
holding your hand
as the nameless one before
and the nameless one to come
6 comments:
Another heart piercing poem. You've included ever possible emotion associated with being lost. It forms a lump in my throat reading it xx
Imagine the pit in my stomach writing it. This is not a writer writing imaginative fiction, this is me bleeding the pain from my veins. Documentary writing one could say. And, for the record, since I often get asked this question--no, it does not help, it does not lessen the pain, it is not cathartic. On the other hand, it does not make things worse, and, in a bizarre sort of way, there is the satisfaction of, if nothing else, having captured a fleeting moment in time.
Elise, thanks for reading and thanks for commenting. You are always welcome here. :-)
Working together like the best of pairs, on the one hand astonishment at the quality and beauty of your writing, on the other astonishment for the emotion being conveyed and the extent to which response is evoked. More asap, for now, love, hugs and wows.
Thank you Ms Storm. May the joy of your girth match the girth of your joy.
seems more like Depressed to me...
maybe lost in depression :-)
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