Emma Susie

No movement.

Roaring in my ears,

but 

no sound.

Oppressing,

but 

nothing to blame.

Suffocating,

but 

nothing is there to 

take away.

What is hope?

A thought?

A feeling?

More?

No one understands because

no one

can.
 

Hope is fluid

always moving.

Too slippery to grasp

for long.

Cold, unforgiving wind batters against my patchwork coat as I shove my way through crowded streets. Tiny snowflakes glitter on my eyelashes and my breath freezes as soon as it hits the air.

Fingers click against the keys.

My head whirls with stories

of a fantasy world.
 

I urge my fingers faster

as ideas crowd for a chance

to get out onto paper.

Letters scramble