Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Where does the poetry go?

This is apparently what I look like when I am stressed. Thanks to Jeremy for capturing this moment when I thought I was going to fall to my death.  

Where does the poetry go
when stress moves in
creeping through the edges
of each door I close
daring to breach
unashamed
the solace of my dreams
covering me
heavy and leaden
tucked tight
against my will?
Where do the words escape to
when my head goes fuzzy
cluttered with
to-do lists,
lesson plans,
groceries,
bills,
schedules,
the din of others
so thick
that I can no longer decipher
the tenor of my own voice?
Is there a place
where the poetry
and words
hide
while I fumble
through life
wondering why
they escape me?
If only
I could live
in that place
week and weekend alike,
summer and winter,
at home and at work,
alone and in company,
so steeped in their presence
that the words
become my breath
and the poetry
becomes my blood.
Instead
I am breathless
my verse broken
each word
a stretch
for the serenity
that lies out of reach.
Who am I
without the poetry
and the words?



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