If I could tell you, then, maybe, it would no longer exist.
I emerge on the other side of winter flu and colds.
Asking myself the same questions.
I sit down in a crowded room of my same struggles.
Looking in the mirror that I mistake for the world,
I write another sticky note for my wall of shame.
Why is this so hard?
If I could tell you…
I have too many creative pounds to shed.
Thwarted by my sweet tooth for responsibility,
My hunger for security,
And my craving for self-judgement.
In my life, as in the world, perhaps I see too much,
Both beauty and faults, as I pile them into their corners
As if I am the only one in this world assigned to sift through their contents.
That is exhausting.
Time. I can’t get started because I don’t know when it will end.
So, I yell at myself for doing nothing
And envision a future collapsing on me.
And once I am there, nothing else seems to matter.
Then everyone is calling me lazy, except,
No one is yelling, but me.
I see my day slipping away and there is only one thing I can do.
And that is…
One Thing. At. A. Time.