I buffer on the way to my kitchen
slippers skidding on tiles
water bottle dangling painfully
from my index finger
turn my head to spot
sunscreen-clad legion of shadows.
Press a palm to my heart
and find the pulse normal
counting rhythms
for the comeback
to splinter this split-second
the one I’m used to
declaring I don’t deserve airy flights.
I hate what I love
after I’ve had my second fill
because I can’t let it go
because it won’t let me
torment muffles scraping throughout
missing shaping step three.
I choose muted latitudes
never found a polite way
to scream
I can’t be who you command me to be
between nictates, I wonder
if now is a comatose dream.
How could they
fills the furthest flank of aversion
like I had only four modes
tired of switching
driving beyond that temporary house
accumulating my fears
never pursuing a home.
Burn my options out
crosschecking dehydration of ashes
when nothing ricochets back
I scour that perfect synonym
matching my consistencies like a quiz
only to splinter it
simulating absolute authority.
Unfiltered Author’s Notes:
I complained for years that I couldn’t meditate. ‘Remaining present’ or any other helpful phrase only made me angrier because I felt like an android.
Then I met Poetry.
Now, I can record moments as they are happening and stretch them later. Make them sound better. Make myself feel fucking alive.
Don’t let anyone (expert or otherwise) tell you how you should live your life. Or dictate ‘Five Genuine Ways’ to administer self-care. Find your poetry.
“I scour that perfect synonym”
You did a fine job. I had to look up nictate. The fuck? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word.
Now I’m just imagining you practicing polite screams. 🤣
I could never meditate either. I like the idea of writing as meditation. Does eating ice cream while watching Love is blind count too? 🤣