Home » Poetry » I mean, really – poem

I mean, really – poem

It seems I should start the day

With thankfulness,

checking off the boxes on my gratitude list.

House. Central heat. Water. Flannel sheets.

Etcetera. But all I really want

is to grumble about how my brain kept me up

last night with

all those songs and craft ideas and book projects

and wondering if I would even have the strength to

get up on time because

did I even get enough sleep at all?

It is a greedy and immature bastard,

my brain, being the cause of

my own worry

so often.

I mean, really

if it had only had these ideas

just two hours earlier

I could’ve done something about them

 instead of wasting my time

reading a magazine

or Facebook.

But instead, like a needy child

 it chooses

to keep me awake

with its litany of requests

that can’t wait until morning.

Should I write that idea down?

What if I forget that chore, that connection?

Will it all fall apart

if I don’t

do it all

myself?

These ideas are like rare butterflies

that if not caught and pinned down

will fly away

never to be seen again

by me

and will probably alight upon

someone else’s head.

Or so they try to tell me.

Maybe they are just a bit of

sausage and scallop pizza eaten

just a little too late at night

as usual.

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