This voice is weak from non-use If I screamed would it be like bark against metal underwater subdued I miss the poetry running through me indigo voltage, connecting my eyes, hearts and hands Is it lost in the coffee mugs and calendar invites, and lists upon lists of milestones? Did I write one grant too many to have a voice that is mine? I need to believe that my past can be traced to my present that who I am when I look in this face remembers the agony and the bliss of feeling the colours of text across the page the memory they hold like a perfect-sized container for the leftovers lovingly crafted for the next day I miss that voice the raw courage that comes from speaking pain outloud from knowing the shades of loneliness from proclaiming love, of risking the saccarine and the cliched I remember the rhythm of my feet landing against the pile of faded orange leaves I remember feeling that my speed was the rhythm of my heart I remember feeling that I belonged to a pack,...