I want to let my wounds bleed out through a microphone
bleed rapid rivers that take you down,
down to the bottom
where I drown in emotion
sputtering fits of depression
struggling to find a reason to
get out of bed
at 3 o'clock
in the afternoon,
while muttering
to everyone that asks
that I'm okay
I'm just fine.

I want to scream the pain into a mic
I want to channel every hurt from the deep tears in my heart
into my words, stitch myself back together
with strokes of similes, threads of alliteration, and needle point imagery,
that make you gasp, make you think,
I want my words to speak inspiration and relation
I want my words to have the power to
touch you, heal you, strike you, remind you,
show you..

Broadcast my journey of
who I am, what I've been through,
and where I am going.
But I don't know
where I'm going
anymore.
I used to take pride in being
a human being
not a human,
being.
Yet here I am
going through the motions like
a robot
when I try to write
it's all bubbling under the surface
bursting to come out but
I can't.

Because if I let my wounds bleed through a microphone
even if I touched you and
gave you something, to live for
to really live,
like I used to live for.
Even then
I'd still bring myself to the bottom
and come out empty
not healed, but empty
a shell of who I used to be

Because I don't know where I'm going,
anymore.
No, I don't.
I'm lost,
not even
the poetry that used to surge through my blood
can find me here,
so lost.