Thoughts That Plague Me

Thoughts That Plague Me

Cyprus (Carly) Weaver

In times like these, you would think people would ban together.
But I can’t seem to feel even further from everyone.
A ripple effect
From one business to the next
From house to house.
My neighbors one by one covered with masks
Their doors closed with boards covering the windows.
A yardstick between friendships and strangers.
A yardstick between shopping carts.
Long lines and wait times.
Miles of yard sticks and masked neighbors outside of the local grocery.
Revine like relationships.
Big gaps of time without communication.
Long hours of solitude.
All passing while we stay hidden under masks and sheets.
Long hours of rest.
Long hours of restlessness.
Hospital beds full of anxious messes.
Hospitals running low on supplies.
Groceries with empty shelves and stock rooms.
I’m not sick with it.
I’m sick with something else.
Something that is so foreign but familiar.
I’m sick.
I keep myself on mute.
Hidden in my room.
Declining calls, keeping messages on unread for hours.
All while I know what they’re thinking.
Staring at my ceiling.
No energy, nowhere to be.
In times like these we turn to our habits.
The ones we keep to ourselves.
I see smoke in the sky.
I see broken bottles on the sidewalk.
I turned to mine, I drawing with my pen
coloring the page red.
They said they closed non essentials.
What about those of us who’s essentials are offices giving us support?.
I’m stuck in my house, in my bed, in my head.
I create excuses, feeling sorry for me and everyone else.
Sorry that there’s nothing we can do.
Sorry I feel this way.
Sorry I am speechless.
Sorry that I feel more alone even if I’m not sick.
Sorry that you may be sick.
Sorry no one is safe.
Sorry.
I see the words on the screen.
What is real?
What is fake?
What is a dream?
There’s people I want to protect.
But there’s nothing to do.
There’s nothing I can do.
There’s this girl.
I want her safety more than anything.
I cannot afford for her to get sick.
This girl isn’t me.
For I am not a girl.
But she’s already infected.
Infected with the voices that plague me too.
Leaving me stuck in my bed.
All while the world around me burns..
Can’t they see we’re sick?
Can’t they see that these long hours aren’t doing us well?
Did they forget that the ill in my head hurts just as bad as this physical sickness?
Did they forget because they can’t see it?
But they can see it.
Can’t they?
It’s right there on my wrists.
For all to see.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I tried my hardest.
But in the end I got sick.
But it’s not like this extreme weight in my head isn’t infectious.
Don’t we all feel like this?
Am I alone in this?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know
I.
Don’t
Know.
And that’s the worst part about it.

English

My house in Westerly; 02891

This is a poem I had to write for my English class, as I am a student. The topic was to create a poem on how we have been "turned inside out" by COVID-19. Here are my thoughts, concerns, and overall feelings while being quarantined.