Focal Point

I wanted to lose touch
with reality—to
plunge deep into
rivers cascading down valleys
and end up on the other side
of a void so expandable
nothing
could ever touch me.
But I am
tired of waiting—writing
with words which serve no purpose
except a gasp of heavy air, exhausted
about trying to fit in, or
be 'this'.  I am chaotic
silence; I have no more of anything,
for anyone. I am writing
nothing and
to no one, but myself.
So when my breath
falls down from the sky,
cold and complacent, could you
please listen closely for my words
and place them in their proper order.
Because
at one point,
I wanted less vocal chords and
more allusion; but this,
awarded to me at no expense,
is worse than anything
I never had.