Poetry

Drunk tired.

Unable to process.

Blockage ensues.

Spurts of insight.

Lethargy combats.

Time to call in the reserves.

False alarm.

No one else to take on the case.

Guess we will be here awhile.

A different kind of flowers.

White and blue.

Specks of food trapped in the bristles.

Stains from washing last nights pots.

The vase is beautiful

in this entirely unique function

which it is being utilized for.

Kitchen scrubbers.

It is the weird tastefulness

of the object in question

which makes me adore being strange.

Block.

It is a block.

It blocks.

What does it block?

Can I walk around the block?

Block head?

Can I stop the block?

Or is it merely a blockage?

Brick.

Mystics have revered

Throughout the centuries.

Oracles prophecy

The next disaster.

Witches give us potions

For various cures.

All in all

We only want guidance.

Assurances

That the future

Will be okay.

Yet no one,

Nostradamus included

Is right,

Because

Even though

Humans want a road map

To their own lives,

Everything

Is up for interpretation.

This poem included.

When you suspect

Devices

Have been compromised

But don’t know how

To check,

What do you do?

How can you stop

This newest

Kind of violation?

Answers are getting harder

To find these days.

Either that

Or I’m just getting old.

My empathy is lacking.

I can be sympathetic

but I don’t really care.

What can I do

when honesty compels me

to say that?

I want to help

but I really don’t know what will?

I am hoping time

will be on my side

this time.

When your mental health

is tenuous

but the ones you call

to explain

will only accept physical symptoms

as a true sickness

means either explaining yourself

– Again –

or ignoring the honesty

and telling them

what they want to hear.

Oh to be a cartoon character

who is allowed

Not to do them.

To be able to sleep all day.

Eat all the lasagna.

Be grumpy and not have to explain why.

Of course,

being a cartoon cat

would not be as exciting

since everything I do

warrants watching.

I choose.

This is happening

because of me.

I decided.

So it is me

who is to blame.

Yet I feel no shame.

Because I am still fighting

that battle

which everyone ignores.

I am Depressed

and I choose to be late

because I can not find the energy

to get to where I am supposed to be.

So who is really at fault?

Me?

Or society that only see me as a failure?

The freezing cold

has given way

to milder temperatures.

Yet it is still below zero.

Time for a walk

with the spring jacket?

I do believe so.

Craziest thing to do in January?

If you think so

you definitely don’t know me.