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Troubled
October 8, 2013
If I could, I would sew myself to my dreams
and drift away in the middle of the night.
Because no one believes me when I say I’m dying
of a sick mind and a small heart.
Prick me and I’ll bleed lies,
cut me open and you’ll find
uncertainty and a paper ribcage.
Because nothing about me is substantial
and yet when I dream
I feel so real
© Amanda L.Marblehead, MA
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