I’m like a bird,
unsettled, fluttering
With the unraveling
of my mind and heart.
I think that crying
might be a good start,
I’m diagnosing
if it’s them or me.
Maybe I’m just thinking
a little too hard.
But thinking hard?
That’s an “M.O.” for me.
To try to right myself
out of the haze,
I’ll try to write myself
out of this maze,
While rolled into a ball,
soul sputtering.
I guess they graduate
from plum to peach
…After all, it’s been
about twelve weeks.
Twelve weeks that have been
hard to get good sleep,
And pass the chances
that it’s all a dream.
Then upset stomachs
start to feel relieved
When comes the day
we finally can tell –
Can tell ourselves
that everything is well.
I scratch my head,
there’s nothing left to write.
I’m finally emptied
of all complaint?
Impossible!
This journaling every night.
And now my muse
will slowly disacquaint.
Yet here I am,
chasing the pen…
Or maybe I am
chasing after zen?
Now, if I dig too deep,
I could fall in.
It’s possible I find
my true self, then,
While writing in my bed,
I’m all tucked in.
Tonight, I’m wide awake
– no reason why.
But, for such reason,
I think I shall write.
That is, it’s time for
some self-therapy.
And this, I do, when
eyes are quite un-tight.
Always! I am
fighting my eyes!
For, once I choose to write,
they choose to close.
My mind loses all thoughts
most suddenly.
Well, poetry’s a lost art,
I suppose.
But practice proves to make
good sleep for me.
In red pajamas,
laying on the couch,
My friend, again,
the fog visits my head.
Yes, everything is true,
or so they’ll vouch,
Existing inside feelings,
rarely said.
I’m held down by
Anxiety’s clamp.
Internalizing
synthetic fantasies,
Leaving no room for me
to un-assume.
I fade into
my false realities
In clothes that smell
of yesterday’s perfume.
the fragrance writer 