the world feels void of magic & nothing seems to
matter & i am fairly certain i am doing everything
wrong. motherhood is an experiment in futility; my
manifesto a blank page forever unread. i let the
darkness envelop me knowing it won’t be forever. i
watch the pieces of my soul fly from tree to tree &
part of me wishes all of me were crows on the wind
but then i remind myself, “i still have work to do.”
okay. so at this point i have spun out to the degree that i am no longer thinking in free verse but more in a prose style. string of consciousness as social anxiety and motherhood and depression and lonely and self-loathing wrap me up in a blanket and toss me down the stairs.
watch me fly.