Creativity is flowing,
everywhere.
See the ideas gleam.
But, as soon as you sit down to work it’s as if everything stops.
There's nothing.
Everything frozen,
Stuck in time.
You can’t move.
You’re not allowed
to move.
The pressure to feel good,
the pressure to look good;
gathering in a small box and running out of room for air.
How am I supposed to go further,
if I can’t move?
They tell you, go ahead move.
but they watch until there’s butterflies on your wrists for even taking a step.
Their eyes are as sharp as razor blades,
digging themselves into your flesh.
Suddenly now I’m in the box.
and the pressure is coming in.
I stop trying
to move.
My legs are chained to the chair.
The only way to be free
is to hide.
10.17.14
About the Creator
Rain Weber
Just your local emo who loves to write.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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