#scribbled poetry

in the end you’ll always be a little too

a little too busy,

a little too tired,

a little too many activities,

a little too exhausted,

a little too sleepy,

a little too occupied with your “me time”

and i’ll always be a little too

a little too caring,

a little too lonesome,

a little too much missing you,

a little too unimportant,

1912

Nineteen days into December,

I in my old oversized beat up coat found a comfortable spot on the couch and it actually was for the first time in nineteen whole days I felt calm.

I sunk in exhausted curled up alone feeling a near magical fuzzy security as an infant safely tucked away within a warm womb-

My insomnia rocked and comforted.

Stolen at nineteen past midnight perhaps by a merciful sentinal who would make better use of my energy to stand guard I thought,

"I could fall asleep, fall asleep right here"

Kind of a great feeling when every little noise penetrates my being and sets me off, sleep never came easy back then.

Nothing like the warmth of my old faded coat wrapped around me, soothing as an attentive lovers arms.

December silence mimicking a phantasmal overnight snowfall ... beautifully untrodden... my thoughts with no tracks to follow turn to an empty canvas, I settle in a rare plague free moment

I

call

home.

1912

CSloan