While Dew is on Roses

I over react to small things too petty to ponder 

I’m super sensitive about how people respond to me

I have an inflated idea of my importance

And I need that to get through nights and days

Full of reminders of how broke down this old wagon is

Walking gives me more time to think about it than I want

Most days; especially walking alone

There are so many things to not do that I’m often paralyzed

 

I’ve grown accustomed to walking alone

But I haven’t learned to like it – sleeping eating living

Alone are things I prefer but being on this journey alone

Makes me judgmental

All indications are I did this to myself and on purpose

Some days I feel like I’m not a family of one

Most days it’s undeniable    Most days

And those long sleepless pain filled nights it’s normal

 

My breath gets shorter with normal passage of time 

Which feels like shallow water only deep enough to wade

Where are "those good old days" when you need them

They’re hiding behind mendacity of days and nights that

Were never really good except when we lied to ourselves

Wrestling with language that incarcerated us is a lifelong occupation

Because it tries to throw away the key

Language rides our coat tails until we learn new vocabulary

 

I can’t get clean enough anymore

Because I know I can’t wash inside

Without invasive extraordinary procedures

That do nothing to purify my soul

So I am the un-pure and unwashed walking along

On a new journey – walking alone in morning dew

I’m glad to have your voice in my head telling me what to do

Sometimes telling me to drink baking soda for a common infection