Most of the Time
Most of the time, poems come
from a deep broken place;
it’s a conundrum.
I like to write poems but do not like
to be in that place. Good thing
life does not let me choose,
most of the time.
Evening Poem II
To wish that others be happy seemed to be
such a good wish to wish, then
I actively wished it and witnessed my happiness whisked
away. Is it my mistake or theirs, that I wish it? Perhaps
the wish is not wrong, but the insistence that
the wish for happiness be what others wish too.
Wish them happiness I will, and to wish–but not insist–that they wish it too
Less-Than-Human, Worriness Poem
The police in me woke up;
I awoke with depression. Never had I interested myself in
rules or the line one must walk
certainly, with exact step and without stumble. I danced,
then, brought to a thin place, I scrutinized daily motions necessary for life to determine
which I could neglect and still cruise by the state
trooper, with a decent justification, and not get pulled over
for being less-than-human. Yes, depression makes me feel
less-than-human because I cannot fathom closing the fork drawer
much less mustering the energy and will to braid my hair or hold a full
conversation with another who may notice my less-than-human.
A full conversation may awake the police in them to finally incarcerate this restless mind
for being less:
10mg less than human.
30mg less than alive.
If I cannot close the fork drawer, or leave my bed without counting to ten slowly,
am I enough to merit the space I take up? Ask the police
of my mind–she still does not know.