art.book.

little girl dreams
slip through quivering fingers
still holding (on)
the phone
trembling paper.

suddenly
it becomes hard to think in colors
(because what's the point?)
like it becomes
difficult to breathe.
i still try of course.

this room weighs me down
with a heavy gray.
vibrant blues
peek around corners
and through open doors
and corridors.
but i'm not headed in that direction.

i hold a death contract
in my hands
and i cry
not for the loss of a life
(because i'm still breathing
in & out & in)
but for the loss of a hope.

the phone still talks
as the speaker sits
in some far away room
speech metallic and distant
and so so blind.
(words hold no comfort
when you don't really care.)

"problem child"
and a breathy laugh.
(remember to exhale.)
am i still a child?

negative.

one is not young
that no longer dreams.