How many people have listened yet,
to the bitter words I've had to say?
I find and keep calm
the hard way,
as clarity peaks and billboards
by streetlights turn into mountains;
headlights feel crisp in the rearview,
a sweet spot hard focused
blue halo.
The night is not night anymore.
Clutter and gobs of green comforter
become home to talk therapy,
where no one is right
or wrong
or getting mad at me.
We watch what we made, relate,
then put away as much as we can take
straight-from-the-fridge brain freeze headache.
God hates the timid,
and I abhor a fragile state.
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