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.