Big grey clouds are covering my skies lately. Every so often there’s a
break where the sun shines through but then,
the clouds eat it up again. I’m flailing here.
I don’t know what to do,
so all I can do is simply sit
and wait until the storm begins and, then,
ride it out.
It’s tiring, this waiting.
I try to build up a sand-bag partition because
I know it will flood
but the bags are so heavy and I tire from the work.
Besides, it’s just sand in the bags. One rip and it all washes away
and the water will still continue to trickle through. Or else,
the sand will absorb only so much of the water and then that’s it.
It can take no more.
Maybe I’m the bag of sand.
Sometimes I’m the water,
threatening to rage across the land,
devour everything in my path. I could, you know; it wouldn’t be hard.
Drown everyone and everything so that nothing’s left
but me and my misery.
Then slowly I’d recede back to the nothing I came from and
we’d begin again.
let the green things take over.
Maybe I should let the flood overtake me.
Let it fill my lungs and drive the air from my body.
That’s what it wants to do.
Drowning couldn’t hurt more than this
power struggle between us every day.
Blood sacrifices were sacred, once upon a time, and,
I’ve bled gallons that dripped into
this salt-water Niagra my tears created.
But I can’t do that.
Instinct forces me up to fight
(I’ve never been much good at flight),
so here I am
building up the wall again
as I wait for the storm to burst.
*therapy writing today using poetic medicine. It does your emotional health good.