by Lorelle Murzello, 04/22/2020, Mumbai,india, ma

Adult Category

My forehead feels like too many people are writing on it at the same time
There’s not an inch of space left
It’s filled with questions written in different color sketch pens
It is worn out, exhausted.

Sometimes one question is wiped off by another,
Like one is trying to trivialize the other’s importance

All these questions on my mind
Weigh heavy on my chest
Making it hard to breathe

My hands miss being part of a circle
Holding other hands
My ears miss trying to draw a graph
Of the city traffic’s decibel levels

My stomach feels nothing but gratitude for the nourishment I provide
Fully aware that there are so many who go to sleep hungry

My feet tap to a beat it hears
It could use more walking
But there’s no place I can take it
It feels neglected.

My eyes yearn to see the white of snow, the green of the hills
It fulfills its dreams in my dreams
It pleads for less Black screen-time
I don’t give in.

My heart feels compassion
It feels misunderstood
It races
Unaware of the finish line

(This poem was written using a prompt from a 30-day Creativity Project called The Isolation Journals)