the undermining magical powers of the brain
I'm dressed in the worsening doldrums.
This itch you call writer's block is aggravating my illness.
And I drown myself in the musical odyssey that is Greek,
fastforward to the jumping gypsy manouche,
and stop to think.
The revelation of muses and the passion of prospect,
the buried secrets in my notebook and the daydreams that reach the stars
are the juices that invigorate me, body and soul.
And without them, I am the desiccated personality
and the agelast that captures the remains of the Optimist.
The lightbulb illuminates each letter.
It clarifies with peripheral vision.
The magnifying glass is a blanket to my world,
and I am tangled in the infinite spider webs
that go under & over and in here & out there.
And then, a thought.
Have I abandoned what was once considered home?
Under the roof and under the night sky, I dream of what is closer in thought
than closer in time. Leaving the islands high and dry
and sprinting from the rushing blood in me--
is this the cause of my disease?
Shh, listen.
STOP.
Here I am, red, blue, green, and orangely confused in thought
lying in bed thinking of tomorrow and not today.
This is when I not so falsely make odd accusations,
and then, rub off the blame like sand in humidity.
Idealist, leave me be.
And I end my day with,
"Shut up, you fool. Live fucking life. Stop wasting away over analyzing."
(And this is the cycle that I relive over and over and over again.)
P.S. This is no poem. This is my life.
rhyme & reason