What did I do wrong that I am not waking up at 3am to furiously write about flowers, bunnies and glittery magical things that make you want to run through the streets tossing confetti
Why am I unable to pour my first coffee and pound on my keys to talk about heinous faces dripping in tar and toxic hearts that make you question if I am angrily swinging an axe over my head as I write
My podium of love, rage, announcing, denouncing, politics and praise where have you gone?
Where are you saucy, spicy, sexy, rumbling, reconciling and rolling waves of words?
Have I mediated too much? Is it because I ate a vegetable? Maybe too much Math?
Perhaps it was the grocery shopping or vacuuming I did
I knew too much domesticity was not good for the soul
Why did I shower so much this week, I probably washed all my dysfunctional interest away
I knew being fresh and clean was bad idea
Oh my, what if my therapy is actually working
Please no, not normal
Have I fallen in love with a sane person?
Mature love, say it isn’t so
It is all so perfectly right it feels so perfectlky wrong
All of these seemingly typical thoughts, it is hard to breathe with overly open airways
What did I ever do to deserve this?
The thought of it all is just too much to handle
Writers’ depression I do surmise
Life is far too normal right now
I just can’t stand it
Stupid normal you are totally ruining me