Still I Live Poem by Nicola Ann Jeremiah

Still I live…

We are in the clouds, in Isolation.
It matters not. In the island of my soul,
There is no company.
And still I live…

On the 73rd floor, nothing and no one reaches us.
No sounds, no trees, no fresh air.
No birds bother.
Sometimes a lonely butterfly hesitates at the window.
I watch it or does it watch me?
And still I live…

The wasted rain splashes silently against the glass.
Tears streaming down the pane.
What a mess I would make if I were to smash
All over on the sidewalk below.
God, I hate a mess.
And still I live.

We are together in this tiny space,
Of a room, of our heads.
Further isolated in this quarantine.
Were we always so distant, so unknown,
So unwilling?
They secretly hate me and I them.
And still I live…
 
Each labor, some work, some study.
I am a domestic incompetent.
Bad cleaner, worse cook.
I can stare for hours at abstract cheap art
On white walls.
Barren, silent, haunting.
And still I live…

I walk around and around the small
Dining table with four chairs.
I am making them dizzy they say, stop it.
As they watch the idiot box and laugh.
I do not care. Shut down, inside and out.
And still I live…

I devour astrology, tarot readings, my horoscope.
My mother's voice admonishes, you are going to hell.
I need someone to talk back to me,
I need hope, peace, a reason.
The full moon listens to my manifestations.
I laugh, cry, hysterically.
And still I live.


The mirror remains unkind.
Fat,50, no prospects, no future.
Again defeated, again a failure.
On the roof across, in filthy, murky,
Rainwater, a little pink flower blossoms.
I die to myself.
And still I live…

End of isolation.
We made it.
I love them, they love me.
Someone somewhere issued us an invitation.
To fear, to anxiety, to depression, to disease,
To decay.
We refuse to accept it.
We arise.
And still we live…