Writers Jam

you are sitting in the pool of your own filth.
there's only so many times you can fight not to drown,
only so many times before your limbs grow tired and numb.

they fall on your sides and you let them.
you lay down, seeking comfort on the barbed ground.
looking at an empty sky,
you're itchy and infected, the filth clinging to your skin.
hands drag you under, voices circle in your head.
i love you so i need to protect you, let's go inside.
you relent. the sky remains.

a few passersby–
even fewer strangers–
all look alike.
your throat is filled with mud, or you think it is.
nobody knows what you sound like, not even you.
they never taught you to open your mouth,
and you didn't want to be heard.

the sky is empty but it's blue.
you're not scared of the clouds falling.
what could they do that you haven't already done to yourself?
make you sink into the ground?
echo the voices in your head?
wet your eyes,
muffle your cry,
bury you inside?

I need a father,
I need a mother,
I need some old, wiser being to cry to.
I talk to God but the sky is empty.
– Sylvia Plath