I'll work
until I'm no longer able
walk
until I'm no longer able
Speak this written language I've come to trust more than memory.
keep secrets I've long forgotten, including my own.
and mama, I've got so many.
make mountains out of mohills,
see I already know balance doesn't exist -
and how irrational it is to search for it.
--I stay up late, later than what you think late is,
later than that, motherfucker.
next day carry out the impossible,
surviving on just caffeine and sugary treats.
blame my headache on the drop in barometric pressure
I tell people when they ask, I'm delicate like that.
except that I'm not.
All I really ever aim for is freedom, to be set free.
from my first breath, I've only belonged to myself....
until my last, I'll only belong to you..
until then, expect this:
snickering
toile
crying hard
misbehaving
smoking
planning
dreaming
watching trees
missing the ocean
misreading gestures,
until I'm no longer able.
with most my life behind,
mulled over.
but this year,
this age,
this time,
is not yet the time.
the link between sanity and insanity is but a snap: almost like a twig beneath your shoe in november and what happens when you can't leave your home because your anger and fear keep you prisoner, and all you want to do is be loved and be good at loving and quit hating everything including the cheap folgers coffee when you really wanted the good stuff from central market or why you can't reach your mother anymore because her pain is rearing it's ugly head over the phone and your siblings don't have much to do with you anymore, why? who really knows, maybe it's because you are becoming the one thing they hate the most but you don't know what that is and in two months you'll be 36 and you still do not have children and you are in financial ruin and you don't have the one thing you really want which is that front porch swing, but first you have to have the front porch. anyway. right?
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