(Last letter yada a-to-z challenge yada embrace your inner weirdness)

I’m here now, but
It’s all a blur —

I most remember feeling nothing,
Nothing, till I swallowed something,
Maybe something from a bottle
Bottled up inside this gray

Gray as cold despair on quaaludes
Preludes to a different morning
Mourning what cannot be felt, or
Failed to show up, every day

But they found me, locked me in here,
Said I need to go through living,
Giving platitudes and bromides,
Can you hear me, ma’am or sir?

Floor and door and wall and ceiling
Tired of no longer feeling
What is this you speak of – “healing” –
All of it; it’s all a blur

Let me out please, ma’am or sir –
All of it; it’s all
A blur

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

4 thoughts on “bluR”

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