what kind of canyon is so deep
it’s impossible to hit bottom
how deep the fault line
might go
under earth armor, violence as
naughty as my
tantrum, when he defies me again
with the:
n.o.
I’m terrible twos again
choke throat and
spine puncture
mucus lungs
and asthma purveyor
the stress of
home.
and how
is it I’m never happy with
anything which is normal?
enjoy
every day, they love to say,
some learn when diagnosed with
c_____. I know it already, so
must
I get sick, slog dying through r_______ and the ch_____
to employ this wise knowledge of the worthy?
To be
thankful, not hostile
that’s what good folks do –
to accept the things [I] cannot change in
wisdom, blah blah blah
and the courage to change the shit [I] can
serenity, bullshit
blah blah blah
fuck it.
I am not the composed taichi type
no,
ima hysterical
blabber, an official
mess – drunk or sober 0:
I’ve burned every single
bridge in the whole
wide-ass world.
so what’s the point of this poem.
good question, finally –
just
to write it all out, appease my
selfish woman-child;
undeserving-of-this-good-life
shit stream
to remind myself, how
fucked
up the world is…
but the sunsets, yes,
I’ll grudgingly admit; are
still so pink and beautiful.
Photo Credit: Natalia Medd Flickr via Compfight cc
Elisabeth Horan
Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other. Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.
