Wriggling Worms

Sometimes the sadness pours out of you like puss from a wound.  These days are unique in their gravity.  The weight is unmovable.  Is it my heart, did I forget to exercise, will something bad happen, should I have a drink or three?

Do I trust this feeling? Sometimes sadness is empty, sometimes its full and either way it is filling.  It fills me to the brim with its arrogant songs and melodies, cadences no wind or sun can breach.  We must all feel this way sometimes, have I neglected sleep, have I not prayed to the angels, have I mistaken delight for carnage, did I forget to lick the sugar off my spoon?

Better to press on the wound, right? No. Better to ignore it, no. What do you do with sadness, sadness that can so easily turn into a sassy ball of swirling light?

Does it take a flick of the wrist to shake it?

When it leaves me hanging, when it stares like a blank faced cat in the trees, how do I address it, how do I fuck with it, poke it, shake it, plow it, dig deeper for the soil underneath?

Will I find worms or will I find worse?  Invisible worms moving to the tune, wriggling to the tango of long blown stars.

Do I wriggle, do I feed, do I deflect, do I regret?

Call and response, is something calling for something, or is nothing asking you to yield?

And if you’re reading this, you know, the shallow waters are shameless, they prefer not to reflect beauty, or sweetness, or the flowers in her hair.

Damn this feeling, shapeless, cowardly staring with glare.


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