Posted on

Of Lead Balloons and Constipation of the Soul.

Just refuse
to hold
on, so it seems. 

Something deeper
has its grips on me.
Like a cloud, alive, hovering
over my head, sinking
teeth in me. Though I need
the surface to keep
I’m prone to dropping
like a lead balloon,

Wings trimmed
for this sentence,
after all, drawn
towards the stars
above this prison
in dreams
and aspirations.

Past and future haunt me.
No faith in what I have seen of either.
Lacking confidence, low on the hope
that we will overcome
this, though still
I remain, pushing, straining.

“Just fucking let go.”

Am I just stubborn,
or is it truly
that I’m


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s