A year ago I thought nothing could get worse
It will get better- After all, it is January the first
Underneath the bedsheets, I cried and cried
Silence is fine- After all, it is better than to confide
How was I to know that all I had would fray at the seams
Unraveling, unspooling, like my unspoken dreams?
Why can I not ignore how I feel?
How I feel such a crippling loneliness that writing will not seem to heal
The inspiration- the will- to birth characters upon the blank pages begins to disappear
Like all my friends who are no longer here
Slowly drifting away from me until I fear
That the end of me is near
What happened to the huddled figure who forgave those not deserving of forgiveness?
Is she the equivalent of her dreams- easy to dismantle and dismiss?
Did she die when the silence became so unbearable that she became it?
Or was her dream of a better world stripped, much like the innocence she lost as a kid?