The falling leaves slap my hand as I ride the road at fifty miles per, my arm dangling
The trees are shedding their masquerade
Exposed they stand stark, stripped
Naked to the soul
The growth of this year’s yearning waves on the fringe
I can follow this lead
Remove pretense not clothing
Stand before all who have an interest in seeing me
Unashamed of my wants
And the things I reach for
I can cast off the uniform of evolution
And enjoy a long winter of truth
Do what you do.
The difference between perplexed paranoia
and procrastination is sometimes a subtle distinction.
The confusion which swirls,
confounding me along my trudge,
gets the name of procrastinator.
I am not at all sure I should continue to call it by that name.
I believe that quite possibly I am an internal chimera,
a blend of creatures, both mythic and fantastic,
striving to live as one functioning specter,
in a world too hard for a disparate visage as myself.
When I am most myself,
when the goal is pure and true, I work with a will.
When I am making deadly compromise
and risking my soul for social ease or the approval of the keepers,
my dragon heart rebels and I am struggling
against the fire in my stomach and fear screaming in my head.
I don’t know how to eliminate the conflict,
but for now I will attempt to stop calling myself names.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault