Suffocation

The words aren't flowing. I feel stifled and tired; Like I'm sitting in a locked car in July with the windows barely cracked. The breeze whistles at the opening, but does little to cool the air. I feel faint. My vision blurs and I start to slip away...I take in a lung full of hot, stale air. Here I sit, staring at the hateful screen, challenged by its emptiness as well as my own. I exhale. What now? What is there to say? All my creativity is held in check by a tiny orange pill. Forced to the ground and shackled like some maniac. Nothing to see here. A phantom whisper of cleverness, now silenced. No, the words don't come today. And why should they? Have I not brayed enough over my lost summer? A pink-eyed sage now muted and melancholy-sits in a stuffy car with nowhere to go and no one to see. Isolation is not as taxing as the butterflies might lead you to believe. Serenity and solitude can be a haven or a grave. This cage is gilded and latched with my own hand. Who would dare to rattle at this dusty prison now? With my feathers molted and enthusiasm extinguished. I haunt these halls waiting for my day of resurrection. When the pills have all been taken and my mind is clear again. When my muse, my phoenix will soar freely in the open air. Careful of its second flight, not to touch the sun...or God or hell. Whatever. The veil is thin my friends and the trip much too frightening. I will fly where I may and dream of where I dare not flap my wings at all anymore. These words do not flow today...but here they are.