The Floor Needs Mopping Too

So I guess it's time to write a poem

Heck, everyone expects me too

And since the dishes need doin'

And the laundry needs foldin'

And everyone keeps telling me to write something

And by everyone,

I mean my own damn body literally went - write the poem

And I went - shut the fuck up

So here we are (happy?)

Together in this word vomit soup (not really)

Trying to write away and towards all the stress and anxiety that's been blowing up my stomach like a big gassy balloon

Cause we be sensitive lately

Every little thing will inflate

Guess maybe that's what they meant when they said your stomach is your second brain

Maybe the first one got too message-box full

So I guess we're blowing up the second one

Like a drunk ex on a Tuesday night leaving too many voice notes

Heck, it's always on a Tuesday too

But my tummy's taking it personally

Trying to block shit out (while keeping shit in)

Call it a coping mechanism or just bad indigestion (shh)

Still stinks

Still gurgles

Still growls at unknown interveners (and me)

I feel like I'm trying to wrangle a traumatized chinchilla (grrr)

Keeps asking for more snacks but biting back at everything

And I guess I should try the old "love poem to the belly"

But my belly needs a damn vacation off in the mountains or some shit (that sounds nice actually)

Cause you can try and ignore your mind (good luck)

Play neopets till you're blue in the face

But this anxiety's got me pregnant with worry

And I don't really know what to do about it

So I guess here's a poem

An ode to the body that holds me and everything else along with it

And a free verse to the air that keeps me breathing

And a big fuck you and I love you to the clench in my intestines

Time for a nap (a meditation dumbass) or something