Writing

I am told to write
by my friends and professors
by all the institutions I find myself bound to
but I write for the child in me still playing barbies.

Sorry if you take part in my stories. Aliases will ensue.
I'm not asking for a how or a why, but a simple what.
I understand some detachment but
not speaking without talking.
What happened to conversations?
Maybe they are just toxic.

Perhaps I'll run away to Canada to work as a late night cook in some town.
That would make me happy for a week or two.
Travel is strange; I always take too much baggage.

I may look back and laugh, but I doubt my parody of life is that comical.
Too much time alone with only a digital friendship is probably worse than cabin fever.

You told me to write for others, but perhaps this blog is free therapy.
I suppose that makes you my lab rats?

I was never good at science, pardon theoretical physics.

I want to write to make sense
to include others in a private life, getting out of a modern mindset
to fill a void made in humanity
understanding my prayers to symbols


Perhaps next time we will dance, but for now I have stare at the future in the splinters of my bed.