Sigh.
And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad,
The dreams in which I'm dying, are the best I've ever had
I am awake, and have been for a long while, but I will not be soon.
I got up early for some unknown reason, pushed from the sheets of sleep. Sitting and studying my early morning hours over new poetry chapters, as I spent the night before it studying all those new styles of verse. I've watched the maintenance man come and go and come and go (who says he will come and go again rather soon), trying not to glower or point out their inability to fix my air when it broke a little over a day and a half ago actually cost me my Sylyth, my smallest pet's life to treacherous Texas heat.
I have read and reread the two chapters of poetry for tonight’s class, with no huge love, nor distaste, for either authors poems or explications about their poems. I look reluctantly toward my new Naomi Nye book, but cant. The world is just not exactly something I'm good at right now.
My head begins to feel increasingly like a vice, like a pole is sticking through the lower left half, somewhere about an inch in from my jaw, at an angel from my temples, making my face around there feel fuzzy, and protruding at an angle about the left top of my head more toward the center. It feels like angry bees and the impatient whine of stretched muscles, and like a thin rod of stone trying to slowly expand where there is not space, but its not either.
I was supposed to go grocery shopping, and the pool is filled so there was supposed to be the swimming in the sunshine, and I was going to write a new poem and finish off the second drabble in my head, but instead I'm going to crawl back into bed and pray this will leave me alone, without taking days, and not keep from my class.
The dreams in which I'm dying, are the best I've ever had
I am awake, and have been for a long while, but I will not be soon.
I got up early for some unknown reason, pushed from the sheets of sleep. Sitting and studying my early morning hours over new poetry chapters, as I spent the night before it studying all those new styles of verse. I've watched the maintenance man come and go and come and go (who says he will come and go again rather soon), trying not to glower or point out their inability to fix my air when it broke a little over a day and a half ago actually cost me my Sylyth, my smallest pet's life to treacherous Texas heat.
I have read and reread the two chapters of poetry for tonight’s class, with no huge love, nor distaste, for either authors poems or explications about their poems. I look reluctantly toward my new Naomi Nye book, but cant. The world is just not exactly something I'm good at right now.
My head begins to feel increasingly like a vice, like a pole is sticking through the lower left half, somewhere about an inch in from my jaw, at an angel from my temples, making my face around there feel fuzzy, and protruding at an angle about the left top of my head more toward the center. It feels like angry bees and the impatient whine of stretched muscles, and like a thin rod of stone trying to slowly expand where there is not space, but its not either.
I was supposed to go grocery shopping, and the pool is filled so there was supposed to be the swimming in the sunshine, and I was going to write a new poem and finish off the second drabble in my head, but instead I'm going to crawl back into bed and pray this will leave me alone, without taking days, and not keep from my class.