I once wrote poetry.
The endless possibilities of human emotion at my disposal
I could pour it onto these blank pages, spiraling out from the mouth,
Falling in love with the nothingness soon to be filled with impulse and expression.
But now, I write nothing, and cage away my words.
Swallowed them from my tongue before they met breath and light.
I once knew how to dance.
And I would, every faded evening when I was alone with music.
It was a whisper that drew my limbs up and forth in a love struck motion
The embrace of my feet to the floor with a stirring throughout bones.
But now, I don’t dare move.
Inhale and exhale to whither away at the passion and boldness of indifference.
I once loved to paint.
The expression of colour and sound through one touch of my hand,
I was the earth bound goddess with dreams of the sky in every story I brushed,
Waiting for the light to cast a spell over every picture I stitched a part of myself into.
But now, I put the paints out of sight.
I’ve gone deaf to colour’s moaning and blind with ignorance.
I once could sing.
Loud, and boisterous to the corners of the room down where the dust was still.
They would come to swoon over my voice, falling in love with every rise and every low,
Carried off into the sea of which was my own voice, lost in the clouds and the dark deep.
But now, I do not speak.
Muted by skepticism and cigarette burns within my chest.
I once lived.
But then I became too afraid of living in the light.