It's that day again.
I find the brush.
Brush it back brush it back,
it's not working.
Needs dampening.
Ouch! hair freeing itself from prison.
Ouch! the brush getting caught on would-be escapee's.
Too cold.
Too hot.
Goldilocks.
Hand through, hand through, separate the tangles.
Watch stray hairs drown like weeds.
I don't want to move.
This faucet pouring water is my home.
I don't want to move.
This faucet pouring water is my own.
I can't let go.
Lather it in, brush it through brush it through.
Wait. Waiting. Waited.
Rinse.
Drip drop drip drop,
Running down my face.
“Who are you?”
You're scaring me.
“WHO are you?!”
You're scaring me!
My brush was no longer a brush.
My heart beating like a hammer.
It was just a little taste,
A little taste now That I don't numb the pain.
It's too much, yet not enough to appease me.
I broke, and that's how I became the sea.
YOU ARE READING
2. Looking For What Tomorrow May Bring
PoetryThis is the second book in potentially what will amount to a series of books over my life. Unfolding the next chapter of life, as things move on forward towards a gateway that brings greater things, things greater than I. I have to stop and wonder...
