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Some days I really wish I had just resolved to post other people’s poems instead of write my own. Today has been weird, and hard, for some reason, and I’m not feeling overly optimistic about tonight’s efforts. Every once in awhile I have days where I am just mired in the yuck. Just stuck beyond belief in a twisted maze of overwhelming anxiety. Usually this happens when have not gotten enough sleep, and when HP works late and I am alone with my fears. It’s a scary world out there for a highly-sensitive person, and even though I try to stay on center, occasionally I just wake up panicky and overwhelmed and stay that way all day and night, no matter how many walks in the woods are taken or cups of tea sipped.

This is how I feel about poetry today:

“Poetry”–Charles Bukowski

it
takes
a lot of
desperation
dissatisfaction
and
disillusion
to
write
a
few
good
poems.
it’s not
for
everybody
either to
write
it
or even to
read
it.

——–

I felt a lot of desperation today, and dissatisfaction, despite all my thousands of blessings, and I’m feeling, just, low. I’ve been trying to fight an awful tension headache all day, and all I’ve designs on now is a shower and bedtime. I’m trying to let Bjork teach me how to handle the broken days, and it is helping, somewhat:

So,

Poem for a Broken Day

When the caffeinated pacing and frantic cleaning does not provide a single clear thought, and when the fear snakes ribbons around my heart, and it seems that I am a husk of myself, watching a muttering madwoman flit about her kitchen, and watching her hands tremble over the cereal bowl as she pours milk for her daughters, and wanting desperately to call out to her, “Wake Up! The light and laughter is all right here for you, brimming in those smiles! Wake up to right now and leave this cage of serpents! It is all here, waiting for you to attend to it”.  As she moves blindly through their imaginary games, picking up toys and many pieces of tiny clothing, she doesn’t hear, she is gone deaf with worries, and though I yell at her, the loud fears mute my screams until all there is left is a tinniness in her voice and in her ears, a scraping sound as her blessings go uncounted, and there is nothing left to do, but to put her to bed, and hope that tomorrow she wakes rested, and reminded of her strength, and full of thanks for being able to rise again.

******************

Ah, Sunday nerves. If this were the 1600’s I would definitely be diagnosed with a wandering womb. Hysteria is just the word for how worked up I managed to get myself today. Ah well. Some days are better than others. What do you do when you wake up with a case of the blues? Happy Sunday, poem friends. I’ve got to put this day to bed.

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