Missing Pieces

The monotonous rhythm of the rain hitting against the window

reminds me of the walls I am trapped within,

not literal, circumstantial,

wondering why I refrain from finding my way out;

perhaps in the doubt that this may not be possible,

perhaps this is as far as I can go

in my plight to fulfil an ever changing purpose

behind the scenes

and in the darkness no one else notices,

let alone appreciates.

And then,

I think about crying in the shower this morning,

the dangling of a possible carrot somehow always out of reach,

symbolism and mockery of all I am,

all I have ever been.

I feel trapped in the pressures,

the demands of what must be in each day,

I barely can catch a breath,

and then another day arrives pushing me along,

pushing me to continue on this trail

that has become life, normal,

and oh so, normal, but not my normal.

I resist where I can however, the hours marching past

laugh at me, in my futile attempt to feel more,

going beyond the mechanistic existence I have become.

The essence of my dancing spirit

lost within the dreams of yesterday,

the passion, the feeling that words do little to express

which comes from stopping time to become one with all.

I miss those times,

they feel like another life and not mine.

I am so numb and so cold.

I grasp desperately at the creative straws only to be forced to relinquish

for another day, another week before I can return.

There are many excuses, none of which my heart believes.

The ultimate question I must ask myself

to which I have no answer,

what would make me happy?

To be me would be the simple response.

However, this sits in pieces before me and I fear

too many are missing to be complete.