By Hannah Yale
Some kind of insignificant premonition
taunts me— the kind of person I should be.
I wish I was at peace,
in the cemetery or
bathing beneath the olive tree,
breathing in the soft colors of dawn.
Instead I am here.
There is too much—
noise, light, undeserved pride.
Can I go? Can I leave this unmade bed?
Can I find the strength to walk alone? to stay quiet and true?
Waking up flustered,
and finding yourself in the middle of it.
White Noise Zine 