Dryspell

I am living
in a void
of quiet desperation.

I flit in the chasm
of morbid mediocrity.
And dabble in the
river of unkempt
possibilities.

I breathe in water
and exhale air;
the wind is my hair
and I wear it well.

I avoid potential
like it is a disease
of the heart,
grubbing with fleas.
Nagging at the corners
of my throat
is the only thing
I do not know.

I seek answers
and yet
they do not heed
my wary call
of dread.
In fact,
will trouble
ever find me
at all?

I’ve been down
this beaten road
before,
whist everything
was still a blur.

To risk potential
is to not avoid conflict.

I am stuck as
average as a tick.

I’d rather be a dragonfly
who breathes white fire
through charred lips.

I’d rather be loved wildly
and slip—

than never love
another human again.

I’d rather be mangled
by a real-life grin
than to face my sorry feelings again.