I walk and stop to look both ways before crossing
I gaze brightly
properly into store windows  
I smile at the mailman
and pray that nobody can see I am unraveling 
I can tell there is less and less of me
and more of not me
but I’m hiding it well
                 I think…
If the motions are all there and the replies delivered on cue
 does the real me need to be present?
If the laundry is clean, the car pool is rota’d and my tax forms all labeled correctly
is my attendance even required? or desired?
I can hide the last few bits and psyche pieces 
bury them in the garden I hope will bloom one day
to bring them out in triumph later
much later
when the skin has grown thick enough 
real enough to 
suffer the walk again
and tie a sturdy knot in the unraveling

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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