Titles are Hard

I think I want to start doing a daily thing where I go over my morning emotions. They're the hardest to sift through because I don't really account for the time needed to sit, weighted on my mattress, pondering whatever blurry thought or troublesome dream that's decided to rip apart my sense of "morning".

I am caught between the need to allow half of my mind to continue sleeping for the rest of the day, and being restlessly irritable. In either case, I'm not feeling sociable. But that will change, as it does throughout the course of each day. And if I engage with others while feeling this way, it will most certainly lead to more anxiety. The easiest solution being isolation, leaving myself to contend with loneliness as the least intimidating beast of the bunch.

Other than this edged haze centered in the left side of my skull, I'm well. I worked out yesterday. I slept in a good bed. I'm washed and moisturized, and I've had some water. I'm far and away from anyone who truly wishes to hurt me.

It's Saint Patrick's Day and all I can think of relevant to that is how annoying I was in the past, claiming an Irish heritage that isn't truly mine to claim. Wanting desperately to have some sort of identity to cling to, something to let me feel like more than a heart plug with no chest socket.

At the very least, I have nearly accepted myself as queer. So there's that, as a community.

I'm not sure how quickly this day will pass. I would like to rest this eve, rather than cling to the sunless hours in hopes of reaching some random, insightful satisfaction with myself to cuddle with as the next morning rises.


Morning Birth (Poem)

Enter fawn

of sweet new birth,

bathed in the light

of this new home.

Mother licks and

legs attain grace,

to learn of height

and of Nature’s face.


The eyes blink wildly

the land bursting at them

with greens,

and breeze…

sway, of tree.


Taste of grass and

step to stride.

Wag of tail

tongue, glide.
Breath is new as morning dew

air of home

sinks into lungs

emboldens blood

to muscle, to bone

etching the patterns

of what has already grown.


Prance, youth.

Prance as air would

if clouds were breathing too.




Bus Rain

Enveloped in the etched glass

Falling forward at a speed we

Have become accustomed to


The diamond hug

Of persistent sky

Blossomed in the droplet

Cursing as it crashes

The concrete

Knows no better love

Than your feet,

And the splash.


The bark is displaced in

The wreckage of your hair

The tips kissing your neck

Breaching your air

Tumble down, sweet cloud

The embrace is gray

And who was wet that ever said

Colorless lacks grace?