playin’
on the treadmill
of life
with a wheat bag
on each hand
relievin’ stress
holdin’ onto
its natural tranquillity
flowin’ from
lavender mixed with eucalyptus;
comfort is home
where my muscles
can
relax
stretched to the limit
numb
burns and frostbites
my toes wiggle
on the fluffy rug
like
on the beach
sand
between the waves of the wind
wrenchin’
my tenderness
concealed inside
where no one can find
that silent music
playin’
in me;
I want to scream
yet
there is nobody there
to listen;
I’m comin’ out of my shell
to the full blast
of the day
who is there
to grab
my bruised hands
to stroke my head
whenever I need it
to ease the pain
and feel a soft smile
shapin’
your lips
speakin’ to me
again
when I don’t see you;
how predictable of life
to deprive me of these
moments of consolation
meant to soothe my nerves
only based
on the wires
broken
durin’ a flood
of words
on my weak head;
comfort always comes too late
to be comfortable enough
in the sad truth of life
*
August – September 2022
***
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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