How long must I flog the dead 

horse before I become it?

I find myself endlessly repeating,

stuck in a loop of unknowingness, 

just to be struck down -

again and again and again.

 

I watch myself as an outsider

I am an observer of my own life.

Me - not me - Me

takes off my coat and hangs it on the rack

Me - not me - Me

takes off my shoes and puts them on the mat

Me - not me - Me

repicks up my bag and throws myself on my bed

Me - not me - Me

views my room in grey tinted sunglasses

 

I view myself as a reflection

Someone else’s hands,

Someone’s else body

Just carrying me from

One place to another

Their limbs feel so heavy 

they droop onto the floor.

 

I try to reimagine my life

in ever growing technicolour

the cups that litter my room

are artsian glass sculptures

the clothes on the floor?

a beautiful carpet unfurled across my room

the garbage on my night stand

is art unrealized, raw material for the taking.

 

One day I will be grounded

and artisan glass sculptures

will litter my shelves

and a richly woven carpet

will live on my floor

and there will be a place

for all of my crafts and dreams unrealized.

 

and if I reach out with both hands 

and an open heart, but closed veins - 

 

I just may find it one day.