Wet faces staring,
strangers,
all knowing freaks,
taunting with
my memories,
speaking solid facts
that break into fragments,
and float into my ears
on a condescending tone,
a stomach churning tone.
I want to scream
my denial, a multitude of questions
with a ladle full of doubt.
Have they stolen my recognition?
Have they gnawed away my thoughts?
Or did a parallel universe
swallow me up in time,
spitting me out in this
white metal dream.
Where I stand.
Where they stare.
Where they wait for the synapse,
wait for the spark
Will it spark?

Sign up to our Mailing List

Sign up to receive communications from Creative Future, including opportunities, updates on activities and more.

Scroll to Top