by Dana Janine Diamond
I don’t write anymore
I’ve lost myself
in the struggles
in the suffering
in the whiplash
of daily life
I don’t write anymore
of sweet, perfumed blossoms
of the feel of skin touching skin
air moving ever so slightly
above the clouds
where love lies nestled
I don’t write anymore
of longing
of hoping
of finding succor
I don’t even write
of brambles and gardens
of moonlight and wishes and soft skies
of summer squash and bright
carrots strewn across
the fields below
I don’t dream anymore
of hot balloon rides
of trying something new
of listening to the radio
with the windows down
I barely remember open spaces
they build little prisons for us
make it so
we barely notice
this is our home
the tears on the keys
until I don’t write anymore.
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