I have avoided writing because I have been fighting this urge to complain. So instead I have silenced myself, which has moved the coping from verbal to physical. Is this another stage of grief? If it is, it should be labeled "burn out." My smile has become heavy and these days when no one is looking it turns upside down. Today it quivered.
I am aware of my feelings of sadness, lethargy, and ambivalence; yet, I seem to be unable to stop them. Usually I can will myself out of any negative mental state. This time I am not so confident. While I continue to fulfill my domestic responsibilities of taking care of my children, I am not taking care of myself. My body aches. I am so tired. I never exercise. This exacerbates my low mental state. Even writing this takes effort. It is so cliche to say, but I want to dig a hole and crawl in it.
See, I told you I would complain. This entry has no semblance of poetics. I should apologize to my muses. No! They should apologize to me for their abandonment. Why do they hide when I am at my low points? It doesn't even matter. I am done. I am burnt.
The poetic ramblings of the momentarily inspired.
Poetry is the way we give name to the nameless so it can be thought. ~Audre Lorde
Eye Witness (A Philosophy of Poetry)
A poem should not be easy,
instead tear away at the mind's seams,
threatening preservation
like solitary moments
in the silent streams of thoughts
that rest behind closed eyes.
instead tear away at the mind's seams,
threatening preservation
like solitary moments
in the silent streams of thoughts
that rest behind closed eyes.
Followers
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