Flowerpot Helmets And Hot Glue Guns Poem by Patti Masterman

On the worst days, I repeat ridiculous mantras
To salve my skittered soul, in a kind of muttered prose of peace,
Giving the frantic mind it's small, measured buffer of nonsense,
Because otherwise I can't breathe, and eating's no fun either

And I'm no good at all to you, once I break down.
So I'm glueing and taping myself together again
Hoping it will last another week
But there's always another; and another

And my flowerpot helmet is beginning to feel so heavy now..