Thoughts on giving up

Don’t give up 

When the world outside 

is asking too much 

and everyone I know 

grows sharp teeth

and everything they say 

sounds like a request for blood 

I look inside 

Take a walk across my desert 

Feel my feet fall upon sand

that is dry and cracked 

Listen for the rustling 

of dying leaves 

Brush the tallest weeds 

against the palms 

of my outstretched hands

When it seems like 

the stranger is pushing 

I wonder if maybe 

it is the friend who is pulling 

Who will not give up 

Will not let me give up on myself 

I play games

of hide and seek

I place bandaids of pride

on my dodgeball strawberries

and I pick myself last 

for kickball 

every time 

Not yet deciphered

The Magpie has a bad reputation

for thievery and deviance

but the truth is

they are curious and misunderstood

Crows and Ravens are labled

with omen and mystery

but actually they speak complex languages

not yet deciphered

with variations of accents, regions and species 

Like a parrots phrases 

begging for attention 

and connection 

Squawking

with obnoxious reitieration 

we mimic the separation we are shown 

In the midst of our instant replay disbelief

we loop the recording on repeat 

Polly want a cracker

Polly want to crack

Polly wants

and then cracks

Sometimes

Sometimes

we push ourselves to broken 

before we allow ourselves to rest 

in another’s arms 

if we ever do at all

Sometimes we live inside our shells 

wrapped in our own arms 

never knowing the difference 

until we come to the end of our life 

and rot inside our egg 

Sometimes we wiggle the constriction

hairline fractures appear 

and we peer out

eyes pressed against the openings 

Blinded by the light 

wide-eyed 

watching from the inside 

Sometimes we bust and fumble

with clumsy excitement 

dance on eggshells 

fall to the ground 

and bounce hard 

stretch our wings  

and try again 

Sometimes we figure out 
how to slice through the thickness 

that holds so much resistance 

and for a moment we know
that falling 
is not 
the end
Sometimes

Thoughts on Work

EXHAUSTION

The skin on my hands is raw

My eyes feel full and tired

My back is stiff and worked

The third cup of coffee 

wakes my numb lips

just the same as the first one didn't 

Welcome to exhaustion 

It is uncomfortable 

and satisfying 

in a blue collar kind of way

in a good worker bee 

well trained minion

proud and strong 

ain't nobody got my back but me

kind of way

It is honest work

that holds it all together 

keeps my feet on the ground

kills my horse at the end of the day

keeps me in my place in the world 

My wings nicely folded in place

And I could do it

until my body fell apart 

I wonder how long that would take

since I am no spring chicken

anymore 

so I am told

and furthermore 

my head has been full 

of different dreams 

ever since I hatched 

Dreams that are starting to squawk at me

Scream through my knees

Gasp in the weak center of my back

Moan over pulled muscles

Wince with arthritic fingers

Fingers that were meant for different work

Work that can only be made by these hands

But the hands on the clock are ticking

And it is getting louder

Steels my sleep and wakes my dreams

Opens my eyes with 

Morning anxiety 

Fills my mind with Poetry
why is it 
that I do my best work
when I am empty

Welcome to exhaustion 

TICK

I have a tick in the tock of my brain 

When the work day is done

and the quiet sets in

and I am supposed to be resting 

any repetitive 

rhythmic

cyclical noise

will 
drive 
me 
insane 

The whir of a fan

Dripping rain drops 

The softest of snores

Click clack of a clock

It is the persistent pattern 

on to which 

my mental engine latches 

Must each round of sound

insist on stirring up questions 

Within a pot of stew

That should already be done?

My ears turn red 

from the fire 

that still burns in the hearth

scorching the contents 

whenever it is left to sit still 

for too long 

I get up 

in an insomniatic smoke alarm 

and rip the clock off the wall

so my mind can have 

a piece of sleep 

for the mere possibility 

of turning down 

the records of regret and repeat

so maybe I can sleep in peace 

A pause is all I'm asking for

Just a break from 
the 
tick

tick

ticking

reminder 

that life doesn't get any longer

It only gets shorter 

That a watched pot 

never boils 

But the watching 

The listening 

The ticking 

isn't about what has already 

been done

It is about what 

still 

hasn't 

even

begun