verstopft

Ich scheine Staub anzuziehen –
Energieatome oder Ideen und Infusionen
, die irgendwie nach
Raum suchen , um zu fliehen –
oder nach einem Ort, um Wurzeln zu
schlagen , vielleicht ein Zuhause oder einen Unterschlupf zu finden …

I am the parasite
that welcomes their company,
yet I play host,
a ghost
who’s been plagued
with creating
something out of nothing,
echoes out of silence.

A dream catcher of words,
on the wings of an iron butterfly,
though sometimes I feel like an empty cocoon,
curled up in my fetal position.

Am I a tinker,
a baptized thinker
who plucks and collects impressions
implanted in my head,
like a tossed salad of withered dandelions
and seeds of iridium isotopes in a lotused bowl,
jostled, instead of merely existing,
exhaling profusely
in my grimy black hole void and ellipsis of thought,
expelling oxygen?

Love, hate.
Words and my pen.
Perhaps, instead,
we are absurdly symbiotic, co-dependent,
shaken and stirred.
But why am I the broken vase
and not the sultry flowers?

Sometimes I feel it would be easier
to measure the universe with a shoelace,
than to be taunted by prosthetic syllables,
floating in my imagination,
banging on my head,
until words
escaping
from my pen
embrace
consume
become
me.

They say my chi may be blocked,
and I suspect it will leave fresh,
inaudible scars.

© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.