Words
imprisoned in my pen.
Thoughts. Hydrogenated.
Mind. Saturated.
Like I’m drowning.
Can’t think straight.
Brain under water.
Words again
subjugated,
Anesthetically sedated.
Re-formulated.
The new, improved me, is what they guaranteed,
but I’m just a piece of work — in progress.
And you can process all the questions floating in your head,
the decibeled frequencies driving you mad,
looking for answers,
like carnivorous cabs combing for fares in the city,
until the cobwebbed mind feels hacked
in a sea of yellow and green medallions, stalled in traffic.
The brain, like a runaway train,
alerts you, till it hurts you,
and you think you’re falling down the rabbit hole,
though you’re stuck in your fetal position.
When I look back on the hijacked world gone mad,
what once was gold, has turned to clay,
alchemy’s footprints lost in sands across the mindless motion
of waves deep diving in an endless ocean, once trusted,
like your favourite pair of jeans, faded and tight
then tossed when they don’t fit quite right
but you’re reminded to savor and make sense of it all,
to gain back some lost and found illusion of control.
Look to the stars, see how they shine.
Don’t let no one tell you otherwise.
You know what’s true,
As all the questions and answers slow burn,
and the words solidify in you.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
