“I am running out of words
I am running out of time.”
I face this very often.
The daunting phase of nothingness.
Empty. I feel empty very often.
There is so much beneath my ribs,
They are drenched in vacuity.
There is so much inside the arteries of my brain
That sometimes, I feel uneasy. They can rupture anytime.
My fingers feel inflamed,
And a pen is enough to soothe them but,
My nails, drenched in agony, make that nonviable.
There are so many things that I want to reveal but,
My throat is inflated with letters,
And although my tongue is prepared to construct
A cloud of verses,
My muscles are not okay with opening their exits
And my ribs are now comfortable with the void that they cannot fill up.
There is so much that needs to be pulled out but,
My ailing avidity says that everything looks better in a black hole.
There is so much that needs nothing but an escape but,
I am running out of tears and my throat is swollen,
My fingers are inflamed.
I am stuck inside a labyrinth that I created for myself,
A labyrinth that exists in my eyes.
But now that my tears are finding a new abode,
I cannot slither down my cheeks and
Evacuate my labyrinth.
There is so much more that I need to say but
I cannot put myself through another daunting phase.
A daunting phase of nothingness.
“I am running out of breath
I am running out of myself.”
This is a very recent poem.