It is eight in the morning,
I have not slept yet.
I am on a strange couch,
Uncomfortable in my injured shoulder,
Watching Wolf of Wall Street
And worrying over something I have no control over
Bowing before something I can master,
That leaves a bad taste in my mouth,
Ashen resolution to sully myself and fret,
Give something else to blame.
And what I cannot control, I bowed out of,
Did not chase, for fear of pushing away,
Caught on a precipice,
This rock surmounted and a hard place to plummet to,
I am caught in its’ crosswinds and wavering ground,
I am lost, unfound, unfortunate felicity,
That had paradise housed and cast self out deliberately.
And this self-pity that coats me, a cocoon that encapsulates,
This feigned protection, is breaking my bones as I beat against it.