Daily Poem

Pause:


I wrote a letter to myself
With almost no punctuation.

I ran the sentences back and forth
Around the bend and over the lines
I crossed some t’s but not all
And forgot to dot the i’s

I wrote breathlessly
But not carelessly.
The intent was not grammar
But thought

Thoughts:
Where does this come from, and how do I sort it? Can I feel it out, or should I sweep it under the rug of my life? What about the job/greencard/nausea/lack of sleep/child inside. What about the chores/laundry/dishes, and will someone ever call? Why is my hair is changing texture and so hard to comb? But what about people with real problems, and how these hardly seem to justify the tears I woke up with, or the swollen eyes. And what about feeling so alone?

The pen takes a rest.
The breath slows down - and deepens

the answers will come when they will
and no
you may not always have it your way

my thoughts run away
breathless, as I chase behind

and then,
I stop.