Waiting Room

Between the synapses and the heartbeat

there lies a silent pipe. It is hard and brittle

and no longer knows its purpose.

Between the memories and imaginings

and the butterflies and belly flips

lies a wasteland.

It was not always so.

The problem is I don’t know how to reclaim

this place of poetry and storytelling,

of song and laughter.

Fear came, anger came, rage came, shame came

and turned the pliable beauty into a

cracked and empty track.

Its tumbleweed makes me doubt myself,

dislodges the flowing language

until articulation

flutters away

and I am paper thin,

choking on silence.