Tag: anxiety

in perpetuity

A poem.

what should i write for today?

the silence that follows
signals more than just words on a page would dictate.
say.
could.

my life so far has been an open book
if anyone cared to listen.
i’ve made pain my frisson –
like that mediocre song by that horrible band,
held-over from the last i let slip through my hands.
i’m sitting on my office chair
on the blanket it covers to catch the sweat and hair
& shit of the times i couldn’t help yours truly,
facing another empty page that degrades into self-study

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home

or, another eulogy

A poem.

“i don’t care.”

the words reverberated through the weeks
that passed since you spoke them
though they always felt like years.
i was still seething, when it was the smell
of your freshly-dyed hair that i wanted to be breathing.

it should have been a celebration.
did you ever lay with a man without your phone in hand
or in reach, just in case
what you thought was a connection was merely malaise?
i am capable of sitting around all day
doing nothing, progressively,
expecting some sugar with my coffee and cream like every man since the dawn of society.
“too sweet to be sour, too nice to be mean.”
timely.

look at me.

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there’s probably something wrong with her kid

A poem.

she lost all that baby fat just for me.
that’s what i see

and it’s disappointing.
she didn’t have to do that, butt-ass naked
but you can’t change what isn’t yours’ to blame.

he scares me when he stares
and when he doesn’t speak to me
or when we’re side-by-side and i say “hi”
and he just outright ignores me.

she keeps it up, week after week,
while i dismiss her in reality but cling while i dream.
there isn’t anyone else
who captivates me as much
from one-hundred-and-forty-four feet away.

i don’t know, maybe ten years ago?
he’s jumped around departments more than i have
but always seems to end up just down from where i am.
no, he has a wife
and she’s nice
and i wouldn’t do anything to wreck my work life.

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fair enough

A poem.

i see your resignation
and i feel your frustration
but yours’ is not a unique situation:

that way you remember, all those
years ago,
when you look in the face of your daughter and you see
how her mother looked back at you like Anya Taylor-Joy
looks over her shoulder at Edgar Wright
when he needs her to do one-more-take of guarded plight,
just like she thought she might
when she graced the cover of a Shyamalan fright:

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