Webs of discontent, laced
Around bloodstreams and skin
This discomfort is synonymous
With unmet demands of the world.
Yet I’m glad, while knowing
That I’m up to no good, these days
Like a cat, who is proud for no reason.
I rely on words to cure me.
Curves of letters appear therapeutic.
So pathetic has been my recovery,
That I have relapses more often
Than I find time to write!
And it’s all still in my head.
I pick up my pen then,
Thankful for the little things,
Yearning to get out of the rut
Of writing for my being
To writing with my being.
Poetry has never smelled better.