Scratch Paper
Sometimes I sit here and I wonder,
how long have I been here?
With the words of a ghost rotting my tongue,
exhaling phantoms who hang over my shoulders;
they offer a smoky hand.
I could take it and escape.
Instead I try to stay seated, unmoving, tired.
My limbs feel too heavy to move.
Sometimes I get a sense of the world beyond
the confines of my mind, I think, I remember.
I’ve lost count of the days and hours
too many seconds becoming minutes.
My head hurts, so I exhale.
I try to reconnect to my body,
are you out there waiting for this?
My words are building up
so many scratch pieces of paper surround me
Come read them, remember me. Find me.
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