Curing poetry is an inexact science
not quite an art neither.
The men and women tut and nod
at what I have to say
they feign their interest
and scribble things I cannot see
I think they think I think too much
and I think that they are right
they give me pills to numb .
I think it’s working.
Words that wracked me a month ago
now barely leave a dint on my wrist
it’s all been blunted.
Often I think it was the right thing to do
but I miss my bleak,
I am merely bland and fuzzy.
bring on the greetings cards.