Usually I can name my thoughts, fashion a
stage for my feelings, and direct my footsteps
where they are needed.
However, my words are a grey script-
located from a stoic typewriter that knows
little of the transitions of life.
So I am motionless cement, laying down like
a headstone too bashful to stand erect.
I pull my hood instinctively over my frigid ears,
you've never known me to scrunch in the
confines of a bed too wide to breathe in,
but right now, you don't question me
Maryanne this was amazing!! Sometimes too many metaphors become overwhelming, i dont think they are necessary in every stanza, but here, its almost like your metaphors werent metaphors...they just totally made sense to me..they didnt sound like broken English, or crafty writing, it was as if they told the story and had me nodding my head like yup, I agree with this, yup, this makes sense. I know I'm babbling, but I hope you get what I mean. I havent really been captivated by metaphors like I have here in a really long time. I love it!!