I called out of work sick again.
Not sick really,
but there are no words for
feeling a danger signal where there is none.
Dissatisfaction? Disquiet?
An itchy paint plastered to my smile
cracking in the corners like a sob.
“What is it with you?”
“It’s always something with you.”
Poised on the threshold between coming and going
inching toward the door
inching toward the if only’s–
If only this, then I’ll be happy, but
in the yards and miles meeting the same old problems
the same old disappointment
that it’s not the places that feel a sense
of wrongness, it’s me,
I ignore
because all the best art is born from pain–
but I’ve not been doing much writing these days.
Too sad even
to thaw the ink from my pen, to connect.
So, disconnected, my eyes on the horizon–
I called out of work sick again.

Really liked this one! See you soon.
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