As I stand there, very still, the sky questions me.
Blue and bright, it eyes me through the clouds.
Can I explain this whole situation to the sky?
Do I dare try to voice the unvoicable concern?
Engaging my synapses, I summon the English language.
Fortunately for me, the sky has already moved on with its own life.
Great, I think, and I cross my arms–because I didn’t wanna tell the sky anyways.
Hearing your words bounce around in your own head is not safer, but it feels safer for now.
I can’t voice it to the sky because I don’t know which words are the ones I need.
Just as I think I’ve grasped at the proper vocabulary, it flees from me.
Knowledge hasn’t helped me one bit.
Living in a world where the sky doesn’t care about your petty issues should feel normal, but it’s wrong.
Maybe the sky is blue because it can’t care about anyone, ever.
Never noticing might be nice, though–which might be why the sky is so bright.
Of course, I know that cloudy days exist, but the sky is always bright and blue somewhere–both at once.
Perhaps I understand that.
Quick question–is this too melodramatic?
Rescue me from a life of cliche poetry, I plead, but the ideas in my head just hide in corners, taunting me like birds.
Stop, I say, aloud, and nothing stops, things keep spiraling out of control.
Things keep spiraling out of control, but nothing seems to be moving.
Unless something moves very soon, I might just scream.
Voice it, voice it–that’s what something screams to me, but I can’t.
Why can’t I? I don’t know, maybe because I’m imagining all of it.
X-ray my mind and find the truth for me.
You know I can’t do it by myself.
Zapped energy is all I have to offer as my obnoxiously long acrostic draws to a close, making the blog post complete.