This poem is from a month after last week’s. I had noticed a pattern evolving in my life–though it would take until September to notice it in my writing and poetry–that seems so obvious in retrospect. The general pain and stiffness caused by the medications I was taking had turned even the ordinary and simple activities of my life into tasks that now cost me more than they ever had. A cost that would continue going up. I wrote this poem shortly after the first time I realized that my old way of doing things wouldn’t work any more. I had to find a new way to manage myself, my emotions, and where I chose to spend my slowly dwindling energy.

I spend my morning red-faced–
Not from the usual flush of sweat
And languid stillness
Of a workout complete,
But from piping anger
That wakes me more sharply
Than any coffee, tea,
Or caffeinated concoction ever could.

The blade of my fury spends itself
On frustrated sighs,
Comments muttered in muted tones,
And a savage review
Of what I deem is the culprit–
My brain reasoning
That this pain could be productive
If only someone else could learn from it.

I am the only one cut
By the honed edge of my frustration
As the morning I want
Bleeds out on the carpet–
Poured as a wakeup call
In place of the mild coffee
I prefer to stir myself
From the languid weariness
Of effort well-spent
And the bleary vacancy
Of a routine that left
My mind to rest a while longer.

My day is distended,
Carved by the red-hot blade
Of my blistering madness
And now warped as my insides
Are suddenly hollow,
The day’s fuel consumed
in an instant that leaves
A vacuum emptiness nothing else can fill
Until I can start this all over again tomorrow.