Sunday, November 6, 2011

Morbid Sunday

 The haziness of Sunday morning.
When you wake up in the middle of a dream
and realize that it's only 7 am,
but you're never going to fall back asleep.
So you start work. Regretfully.

Brewing coffee.
Getting on with the day.
Some musings I found in a stack of note cards.


She's got her bricks laid,
all set to build up an impenetrable wall.
She scrutinizes each foot step,
determined not to slip, or fall.

If she protects her interests,
and keeps that guard solid and tight,
it will all pay off one day
She'll feel the warmth, see the light.


Letting fear drip from her finger tips
out of tiny pin pricks
Holes not big enough to deflate her ambitions
dreams and desires.
Just big enough to let ot the bad stuff,
to create a proper balance, a proper pressure.
She can't keep it all in,
or surely she'd burst.
She needs the little vents to release that
horrid air,
so that she can breathe more easily.
so that she can sustain.

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