Category: Poetry

I’m past the snark,
the sarcasm.
We’re not voting
our way out of this.
What is to come
will show us if our history
has been built on lies
and I don’t like
what my gut it is
telling me.

The desk chair cushion is too firm.
The buzz from the fridge is loud,
the computer is louder.
When the dog bumps my chair,
it feels like a shove.
When someone shouts,
they’re screaming inside my head.
All of life’s padding is gone.
The inner critic is unleashed,
undermining all the little smiles
that get me through my day.

I’m searching for that sweet spot
where I’m sane enough to function
but not so sane as to complain.

I am dopamine hunting,
avoiding the emptiness of sitting in front
of a blank sheet of drawing paper.
That white sheen reflects anxiety.
Will the sketch be any good?
Will any of them ever be?
Who am I fooling?
I never felt this as a kid
while holding a pencil.

I look at my face in the mirror as I shave,
hearing past comments from friends
about my eyes, my mouth,
how one side burn is wider than the other.
This is my personality waking,
claiming to be who I am.
A conglomeration of memories
and faded emotions that are no more
than a tattered, stained sheet
covering the void behind it.