Another Floor
Sitting on another cold floor
as my ankles turn to dust.
Frantic chaotic frightened calm:
the only friend that I can trust.
The birds outside my window can't hear me
no matter how loud I whisper.
I write letters to my inspiration.
Let her know how much I miss her.
A gust of wind like thoughts do not linger.
Fingers weighted with lead in a dark room
where my thoughts and I pound keys.
I ask myself:
Am I afraid of my own shadows?
Or are they afraid of me?
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