Yellow

• Monica Burton, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2013

I would liken it to a complete loss of space,
the fervent desperation felt at a pivotal movement, cut away like threads from a sweater
rudely leaving behind an unwoven peace.
And yet as my language wraps itself around my mind
in furious tangles;
When I write
I can pretend
I’m something other
Than what I am
The silliness of the prose insults me. I trample it under a herd of cliches; the delete key is so smudged that it screams to be replaced.
And it’s terrifying, this loss of words; I should be done by now
Newly printed
Freshly minted
It must be windy.
Inspiration should spark like a chalky matchstick.

Still here I am
Empty-saucer writer
Tea’s gone cold
Blank page challenging my very essence.
This is not writers block, perfectionist touches, none of that.
The words have fled, simply vanished from my grasp;
and the keys look like symbols again,
not a good sign.
By now they’d be running through my veins, electric blue;
elusive little things they are,
my words.
They come full circle, curving around my head
bright blue to tame, fading docile orange.
Words simply cannot be orange;
everyone knows they are furious blue,
the universe at night, illuminated.
It’s necessary. Crucial even.
How else will I know I’m real?

It’s deeply unfair that in my time of need
I am left with nothing,
all burnt up like a pine forest,
a shriveled cone falling away as the seeds are released.
Hopefully they take root, grow me a nice metaphor.
Because without my words,
all I’ve got is reality.
Which, by the way,
is yellow.