I could take a pill
to fill these holes,
to sand down my edges
so I fit in a mold
where I can meet normal people
and say normal things
and do normal stuff
and think normal thoughts.
I could take a pill
to kill the loneliness
and the emptiness
and the helplessness,
but what else might it kill?
What if I took a pill,
that stifled my wonder
and suffocated my curiosity,
shrinking the vastness of my imagination,
collapsing my personal universe,
by killing the child inside?
What if I took a pill
that murdered my poetry,
erasing magnificent combinations of words
waiting to be used in verse,
and exterminated civilizations
and aborted characters
that haven't been written yet?
I could take a pill
to stop myself from hurting,
but what if I took the pill
and it stopped me from creating?
No comments:
Post a Comment