curled up on the couch like a dog again

even my blood is too loud this day

 

I’m far too concerned about ghost ships

the fact I cannot bake a pineapple upside down cake

or all the unreal things that become real

because my mind says so

 

to the point that

 

the labor of living is a solitary sentence

slowly             stripping joy

from my smile most midnights

and most midnights

Anxiety is a rolling torrent

white water                 claws me down into the pall

bottom of dreams

 

on those nights I crank the pain volume up to eleven

for my wicked mind that made touchable these drowning    ghosts

 

did I miss the exit to happiness somewhere along this road

or is the wasteland the destination

I swear my mind is not crazy but it is

a rest stop for weary angels as afraid of forever as I am

 

what pulls the grenade pin

and sends my sunshine into a spiral

which trigger turns the world into mirrors

 

am I am coming back

like a torched art gallery

tonight unburden joy

genuflect the grace

broken has afforded me

a softness

a gospel according to the therapist’s couch

a gratitude for percussive pulses

A the thank-God-I-talked-to-anyone-

friendlier-than-my-haunted-house

the open windows and the calm

knowing thunderstorms will appear within them one day

and it’s okay

 

the horizon breaks dawn and darkness the same

let there be a moment

where the door open is left open

for

to carry your breath for even just a second longer

than you planned to

your burden is not a five-alarm fire

it only feels that way in your five-alarm mind

 

the whole world is a grenade

and it’s okay thank God it’s okay

 

bell the gospel of tomorrow is another day

I swear there's something on the other side of it

I swear to leave behind the open door you're searching for

and I swear when it’s loud when it howls

your pulse is music