Dread on the Bed
I don’t want them to be right. I wanted to be right. I want to write.
I feel like a failure right now. My parents tried to warn me, but naivety overtook me. I don’t want them to be right. I wanted to be right. I want to write.
I’m depressed and irritable. Success is defeating me. My food is eating me. My heart is beating me.
I don’t know what this is. I haven’t done it before. Perhaps a new kind of poetry you’ve never seen before.
Ding my phone rings. The phone hits the floor. I fall into my bed once more.
Bury my head deep in the covers. My tears hit the covers. My fears become uncovered.
Smother myself. Uncover myself. Shake my head, stop the dread. I am not dead.
Alive. Alive, I will survive. I must revive. I shall not die.
My love for myself and my love for my health will help lift me to the highest shelf. The shelf of the self.
Feel it. I’ve felt it. With, I’ve already dealt it. There’s no need to melt it, for solid my emotions shall stand.
As solid as solid can be anyway, for we are all vibrating particles just like the thoughts that cloud our heads and cause us dread.
It’s all in your head. Get it out of your head and onto the notepad instead.
Change. Change all the misled. Get out of your bed. Get right with your head.
Head up. Heart up. Thoughts up. Hands up.
Happiness lands. This is so grand. Now, get on with your plans.
