Thirty Nine

Day Thirty Nine:  Productivity

   Underneath it seemed

Like every moment was passing though something like

Five hundred years,

That throbbing in the back of the head,

The ache between and through each eye,

As if, as if someone had completely

Mistaken my place for one of freezing pain,

Is it ferocity if it is unintentional?

Is that a static feeling?  Ferocious?  Rage?

Upbeat in what I thought as something new

But alas I remembered, this comes once every so,

Popping fresh balloons of nerves

And turning each cause into a symptom,

It’s not pain it’s just another one.

So water fills the glass and empties again

And each time it happens I believe it will leave,

Again, and again, returns, bi-annual, bi-monthly,

Bi-weekly, bi-daily,

Repetitive motion-sickness, plagued by good intentions,

And the inability to create a cautious, intentional end.

How tempting it is to tip every bottle all the way out

Into the palms of my hands

And into every stream I could compose,

And yet I let it seep through, forgetfulness of mine,

Triumphant and trusting that it will seep every time.

Is that the condition of a splitting mind?