It is as if they’re intruding in my
private mental space, forcing me
to hide in my body; I’m exposed,
cannot compose my thoughts,
organize inside my head.
Brain frequencies and mental
stations are estranged from their
usual mental haunts, pressured to
give thanks for kindnesses and
blessings meant to improve health,
promote ease, but confusion results,
restless lack of concentration.
I don’t know what to write or say –
I don’t know what to do. Since you
are of the same strange literary
persuasion can you tell me what
you think is going on? Could you?
Are physical exercises incessant with
talking too overwhelming? I want to
go back into silence and soft feelings
of gentle focused attention, where I’m
in charge of myself and my feelings,
safe from prying eyes.
Or is this just a physical thing? I have
tried addressing corporeal dimensions –
if you think I should not seek insight
of a fellow poet, just tell me, I have to
get through this one way or another,
would understand if you’re baffled –
Though I suspect few things really
do that. Why do I feel horrible
when the world is peripatetic?
Margaret Alice's Other Poems
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