By Amie Moorehead
There has been a decline in the way I create.
It’s lackluster, foreboding
Like self-sabotage.
The air tastes different, feels like ash and tastes like iron.
If I could paint you my dread I would—
Or would you rather a robot do so instead?
But it is not only imagery, it pumps in my blood
The creation. The fear.
And I can spill blood.
There’s been a decline in the way I live.
I’ve defined myself by the ability to succeed.
Not whether I have or whether I haven’t
But because I could with my own bare hands
I worked to live,
Not lived to work
I worked to create
And lived to create
And my hands saw use.
Ten years ago, I looked at progress
And never saw a threat.
Every success we viewed revolutionary
Holding our heads up
Admiring the pedestal with tears of pride.
I always thought it special
How we so uniquely cried.
Now we’re ten years in the future,
Progress writes the papers
Progress assigns the grades
And we admire the progress, unable to clap
Because our hands can’t work
They’ve become limp as our minds and
dead as our hearts.
And while our blood still pumps
The iron is stronger
Like designated chains in the dirt.
Ten years ago, I would’ve cared
Because I was human once.
We defined ourselves by the ability to succeed
But failed to define success.
If I’d known I would’ve cried
And used my hands to wipe my tears
Now I watch
Without tears
Because emotion never mattered.