A Shoulder to Cry On

poem, poems, poetry, writing

Life is a routine

I cannot conquer.

Buy groceries,

Do laundry,

Scoop the cat box,

Write my thoughts.

 

I should always be writing.

Keeping the crazy in the pulpit.

This bus driver causes

My pen to sli—.

 

The present passes fast

So I keep an eye on the future.

The present passes fast

So I keep an eye on the past.

 

Sometimes I question my morality

Testing the boundaries of my mortality.

I happily share oxygen with my relationships.

I chastise myself for not writing

Then it spills out of me.

 

My core is a tornado

Of love,

Hobbies,

And anxieties.

 

I wonder who feels this unclear burn?

We are all snapped

From the same Weeping Willow.

Planted in the shallows.

With the intention of branch taking root.

 

An original from similar origin

Of angst,

Excitement,

And contentment.

 

Cocked with a smile and a buckshot of advice

We brave the day.

With a collective desire to two face the neighbors.

With a collective desire to kill our darlings.

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