Mornings in Bed

 I long to get up out of bed everyday
 And charge straight ahead
 Greeting folks on my way
 To share just a bit of my burdensome mind
 And learn from the rest
 All the things that they find
 To be true, or intriguing
 Strange or perplexing
 To engage in a discourse
 With minds and hearts flexing
 Their power, agility—stamina, too
 Yet, too often I find I’m just struggling to
 Open my eyes and
 Turn on the light
 Dragged by some strong, unseen force 
 Towards the night
 I lie and I think … then feel myself crushed
 From my core, an abyss spreads 
 My sense of self hushed
 So, I can’t find the will to rise up
 Out of bed
 I toss and I turn while awake in that bed!
 Ensnared by some stranger
 Inside of myself
 I can’t turn off its voice 
 I can’t call out for help
 It’s madness, I know it
 But it’s there, every day
 I can scream, I can cry
 But it won’t go away
 And by the time that I manage to drag myself up
 The goals that I had for the day
 Have washed up
 On the shore where my heart meets my mind
 There appears
 A desolate landscape
 My hopes and my fears
 But, I promise, I try
 Every night, I prepare
 I think happy thoughts
 And stay fully aware
 Of the good that’s in me 
 Of the good that’s in you
 Of all of the reasons to live 
 Which are true
 But, every morning
 Without reason or cause
 Without fail I do find myself
 Caught in that pause
 and no matter how hard I do try to escape it
 that stranger inside takes its hold—
 I can’t break it

Mornings in Bed … a deceptive title? Not to me. I actually didn’t think about how different this daily ritual might be for other people until I came here to post it. To share it. Which is rather the point of starting this blog/site in the first place. The sharing, and the consideration of other people’s perspectives and experiences in light of that sharing. As often happens, I hope there are many people who cannot relate to this at all. If you can, you have my sympathy as much as my empathy.

And, as I’m already rambling about my work, I might as well reiterate how much I detest sharing my poems. My words and works will always be open to interpretation—which is fine so long as people don’t project their interpretations onto my psyche.

We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are.

~Anaïs Nin

I don’t know if it’s a mood … perhaps melancholia is part of my basic temperament? However, the lighthearted, childhood rhythm and rhyme of this poem contrasts with the subject matter in a manner that is very familiar to me. It’s very me. And, it reminds—in theme—of the last short story I shared here, “The Drive.” You might want to check that out, too.

I’ll be sharing the link to this over at Phoenix Fire Press, as well.