Clouds are heavy but sink slowly
risen from somewhere I can’t see in the city.
My head rises from the pillow
when the light is coming through the window
I sink as the day goes on, slow and softly,
gravity wins me and the clouds.
I close the blinds when the light is gone.
Don’t believe anyone when they say less-than-perfect mental health is conducive to creativity. During the past week or so I experienced a stressful event, which I avoided fixing, naturally, and my writing has been almost non-existent. My painting has been technically focussed rather than creative – I used it as a way of spinning my avoidance for something productive and positive.
I can’t create much good (art, conversation.. anything!) when I’m trying to ignore myself. (I’m also bad at answering the phone.) The problem was soon resolved by other people and I still wasn’t okay, for a while later, to the point where it’s disturbed my sleep and day to day activities.
It has triggered a small low (read: weepy) period for me.
But Tuesday happened, and Tuesdays demand a poem, no matter how poor and unworked. I think if I worked at this one it’d get worse, and possibly more pretentious.
Now go check in on someone you care for. If that’s you, that’s good too.
Hope you have a happy tomorrow.