Simmering

i sometimes spend my days

craving poetry

dreaming of painting

and imagining the stars

while never putting my pen to paper

opening my paints

or looking upwards

i may find solace in the not knowing

the what could be

and the familiarity of

longing

with all of my body

what will be left of me

if i am well

and no longer rotting with beauty

how could i escape

if there were never a cage