everything to nothing

She used to be pretty but lived
as she dreamed
dreamed as she lived,
never speaking unless
spoken to,
simply holding fragments of
herself and a worn book
of scribbling by poet unknown.

Not knowing how to read
she stared endlessly
at the contrast between ink and paper,
losing herself
too often
between the lines.

Her voice was slow like honey
thick but with a bitter
aftertaste.

Strangers remarked
upon passing in the street
of her likeness to someone
they once knew,
or seen captured
on celluloid,
turning for one more look
only to see an empty space...

...
                ...
                                ...

...have you ever found yourself
waking from a dream
with the metallic taste of blood
in your mouth,
only to realise you have bitten
you own tongue
in an effort to wake.

I used to scrawl out visions
in a notebook with chewed edges,
lines of poetry that came to me
before reality grounded creativity
through gravity and a sense
of someone next to me breathing,
as they dissipated- the words
I would gnaw the pen to stave of hunger            
turning my lips blue,
a sure sign of suffocation.

I danced a jig to my own voice
out of tune and semi dressed
just to raise a smile from my daughters
pink lips and gap toothed mouth,
the shrieks piercing
through a three day hangover,
limbs pencil thin wrapped in paper
all before I fell inward -
onto my own sword I had sharpened
only that very morning.

I have given nothing to everything
everything to nothing ,
emptiness keeps me full
and I no longer speak
unless spoken to,
or write and I have forgotten
how to read.