Posts for June 8, 2019 (page 2)

I almost lost you yesterday.

It’s something I have to take seriously
without looking at it too closely
if I’m going to make it
through the next month
without breaking down.

I know you are sorry.
And I know you are as scared as I am.
I know that, as one of my therapists said,
the brain makes a lot of stuff.

We have all scared ourselves at some point.

I have tried to prepare for a life without you
because it is my greatesf fear
and I need to know I can survive it.
But it is still my most painful thought.

Today has been a normal day
filled with your laughter.
But ocassionally,
in the silence,
I think about almost.

very drinkable, upfront
decidedly fruity, punchy
pleasantly tart and dry
10 lbs. of fresh zest
soft, fluffy mouthfeel with
almost no bitterness

I go left
as they dance right
trying to exit the stage,
to outrun my fright,
but as I go right
and they dance left
I stumble upon
the happiness theft.
The happiness theft,
saying I’m a worthless fool,
yelling random jargon
all so cruel.
I am blinded by lights
caught in this mess,
alone on center stage
with the happiness theft.

the day was full 
of beautiful 
magic and love,
adventure and
discovery

in one moment we pet 
a mini-horse named 
Sancho who walked all 
the way over to us 
through his field
of daisies 

for hours we talked
in a resort pool
with two wonderful 
gay men that I’m 
pretty sure 
we’re legit 
friends with now 

at this moment, though
when I’m supposed to 
make a poem in order
to meet a goal,
I’m painfully 
bloated, suffocating
inside myself,
probably pre-menstrual

and I just don’t have
a poem in me 

better to wait till
I feel better
then I can do the 
day justice,
then I can make
a poem everyone
deserves

Light, The second fastest thing in the universe it travels at 186282 miles per second and still darkness takes over

In summer, mornings are my
favorite, especially cool, cloudy
ones. The anxious wait; anticipating
a storm at lunch time, raucous
birdsong a soundtrack to the chilled
moist air. It’s like a pause in the sticky,
humid span of days. Fresh air, a change
of pace, the soothing caress of patient,
deep longing. All we have is this time –
each moment a whisper, fading as
soon as it arrives. We cling to it and
paint a vivid picture in our memory,
but life is fickle and our recollections
fade away, only pulled to the forefront
of our minds with the smell of
honeysuckle on the fresh damp breeze.

Walking out into the (an adjective) night
to the sounds of insects and distant
baying. The pack of (a plural noun) lives
across the treeline. Once I left
(a place). I realized it connected
an electrical cord to (something
vital). Upon return, a decade 
has (a verb ending in -ed) me
into not-quite-the-same.

Can you ever (a verb)
your molten heart?

I’m happiest when I’m sleeping 
Secluded from people breathing
So that is when I’m happiest
In my own little sleeping

Sleepburdened and achey headed,
I’ve let today pass easy.
A heavy grey sky at odds with the warmth of company.
A key to lighter times presents itself on days like these,
When the lock is more overbearing than others.