Monday morning stretches into oblivion like a long line of grays, like an endless ocean of shrugs, there was a time when I bathed in poetry but perhaps it's just my rear view mirrors playing tricks on me, would not be the first time I turned drops in a waterglass into tidal waves. My nerve endings tremble in anticipation, looking out for any sign of approaching fire, any sign of icebergs below the surface, ready with an arsenal of paper shields, they turn to ash at slightest touch.
The answer cannot be to conform, to dock one's boat to the steady barges of a slow channel, I know it makes for peaceful sleep, but how will you ever get anywhere, what poetry can there possibly be in stagnant pools? You were made for poetry, even scraps of poems are better than laundry lists of neverending Mondays, you spend your days on the ledge now but you haven't fallen out yet,
you're not falling out
yet,
Every day is a balancing act
and the water is full
of sharks.
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