If only time would stop
so I could spend endless hours awake
in silence
doing nothing
other than being
awake, to attend to the silence.

 

And the fan quiet down
stop that incessant spinning, for once
Step aside
for soft echoes
swimming in shadows
of this murky, unquiet consciousness.

 

Would that lights could fade to black
sink into a still, undemanding screen
to relieve
these poor thumbs
now turned numb
from guilty attempts to reciprocate.

 

Or that the weather would cool
and stop making my skin prickle
in protest
at this waste
of a place
that slowly but surely suffocates.

 

(Broken sentences – because now that I’m reading about prosody, I’m not sure I can ever call the stuff I write poetry, so until I know, until I get it, it’s all nothing but a mass of broken sentences.)
Growing up comes with the challenge of telling the difference between a phase that would eventually blow over on its own, and an actual problem that needs intervention. What is this dissatisfaction, this disquiet? A need for change of environment or change within, meaning man up, suck it up? A passing distraction or something deeper than that? Immaturity and typical Gen-Y entitlement, or maturity in recognising when you have outgrown your environment? Or is it merely bad stress management? I am well aware that I have always been high-strung and reactive, which makes it harder to tell.
If life were to converse with me now, as if I were its client, it’d probably be throwing a hissyfit. Why are you so hard to please, you impossible woman?
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