They crawl in me –
Parasites bulging under my skin,
Swimming in my bloodstream.
Sometimes the cold of the night
steals me in its arms
And its darkness blankets me from
leaked memories of my youth.
Sometimes I don’t know if it’s worth crying over/
Or dying over,
Or shouting over
Or screaming over.
I want to scratch at the worms and dig them out.
I want to scowl at my pains and press them down.
The truth is, this isn’t a poem. I’m stuck and confused. All I really want is my own studio and some quiet time to create all of the art I want to create. I want to, am going to, stitch together all of my dreams and inspirations and fantasies and bring them to form. I have so many ideas that fill my heart, but there’s so much junk, so many voices in my head – it’s hard for me to create anything right now. And it breaks my heart.