My Favorite Time of Day

Its ironic that my favorite time of day also happens to be the one time I shouldn't be sitting around being idle and allowing time to pass. But more and more recently, I've indulged myself in watching the sunrise from my window. Its awful and beautiful to watch the sun  climb and struggle to be seen from behind all of the buildings, the color blushing the sky. Its simply my favorite sight and so, my favorite time of day.

Panic

I like to think I have my anxiety under control but lately I can't even remember the things I used to do to soothe myself. Its not fun.

Panic

My chest feels heavy like something has been placed on it. A small heavy object. I struggle to find my breath, a channel funneling air away from me. My stomach is so full of fear and angst that i cant eat or drink or even move. It hurts to the point of roiling nausea. My skin feels cold, my eyes flood with tears from frustration and mouth goes completely dry. A moment or two or the rest of the day with this prickling at the back of my neck and this constant worry.

Panic is a detestable feeling.

words

Sometimes its so hard to find the right words. Both speech and written elude you. Other times the words are frantic rushing around begging, demanding, to be plucked from my head. Like now. In the middle of a writers semiblock where I have words but no reason or solid idea just items that seem pretty when strewn together... Like decoration for paper.

Its times like this that I listen to the blues. The melody will sooth me and the lyrics will strum at my soul like a perfect minstrel for clear thought. Tonight Etta James and Billie Holiday will be !y goddesses and muse.

As yet Untitled

I

I once wrote a poem on my forearm because I didn't have any paper and I wanted to secure these fleeting thoughts which were mostly flowery words with only slight rhythm and a bit of alliteration: a sweet sinewy symphonic little litanizing liturgy

You remind me of that poem. At first so strong on my emotions that I'd do anything ere it disappear. Only to be washed away and remain as a fond memory of something beautiful I once had, the tarnish of time revealing its true nature


II

You're in my head with your tsundere way
But your lips renounce everything you say,
They taste like peppermint candy

influence

I remember the first time I read a poem by Haki Madhubuti. I was still in elementary school and I had no idea what it meant but the poem stuck with me. Made me want to read more from him. In reading it, at a much older age, the meaning changed. It made sense. Did I like that poem? No. But did I like every thing of his that I did happen upon after. Yes. And that's the power of influence... And the power of a good writer.

After a certain age it feels as though the future is set. 40 more years and I can retire and go on that vacation I always wanted to go, do that thing I always wanted to do and buy that thing I always wanted to buy. But why not now? Where is it written that after a certain age we are all supposed to surrender our dreams and live half lives like a broken reality.

I sometimes wonder what Robert Frost was feeling when he wrote Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. He could have stayed in that one spot. That one beautiful spot. But he had more to do. "Miles to go before I sleep." I too have miles to go. And though life is good, right here and now, I can't be complacent.

I have dreams.

I want to be Madhubuti and Frost and Browning and Millay...