August Heat

August has shown its teeth. I can feel it gnawing on the side of my head, the piranha pressure above my ear. I have read that I’m not alone in feeling at odds with myself. It’s in the air, the last of the pollen, the flowers screaming to the summer’s end. Do we all feel something changing? The season? Ourselves? I don’t want to change right now. I want to be calm and lick my healing wounds and curl up naked on the wood floor to cool off.

Instead, I keep working toward something that never ends and I’m tired. 8 hrs, 6 hrs, 10 hrs of sleep and no where in between do I feel awake.

I’ve been reading old journals to get to a place I don’t want to be again. Sickly, emotionally anemic and even now I worry that what I’m writing has no purpose. I feel insecurity painting internal walls and it misses spots like insecurity would – it’s careless in its work. What is a poem and who decides? What is art and who decides? Mostly I’m asking because I’m not sure – and I think that’s a bad sign. It worries me that I don’t know right now.Or maybe I do, I’m just too tired to answer, maybe all I can do is stare and drool. Maybe I just need rest. Maybe fall will have the answer I’m looking for.

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