Three quarters of a cup.
Hardly enough to jump start the day.
Barely enough to put you to bed.
More than half, less than full.
A confusing stake in the ground
Half way between half way and all the way.
We half and quarter our way through life
In a pointless perpetual measurement.
I will forego fractions and increments.
I forsake my place along the measuring stick.
I’ve not begun or I’m done.
My cup is empty or it is full.
I walk the infinite line.
My progress cannot be measured.
There is no place to take a right,
I thought as I tried to navigate
My way from the center of my brain
back to a world I once knew.
If I couldn’t take a right
I wasn’t going to take a left.
So I barreled straight ahead
Picked up steam and blew out the
Front of my frontal lobe.
No one seemed to notice.
The Buckling comes in waves.
That clinch or flinch or collapsing in that happens.
It looks physical but it feels more like a shuddering
Of that inner sanctum you can’t seem to control.
That quick expulsion of breath.
The reaching for something to grasp.
The electrical pulsing through the muscles.
Too much energy, not enough.
If I could only sprint and sleep at the same time.
 | Derek D on Musings on Knotty Pine Me… |
 | Monica Butler on Hot Mess Mask |
 | joegergen on Musings in the Dark |
 | Ben on Musings in the Dark |
| joegergen on The Devil is in the Ice C… |
Fortress of Dissolitude 