when will the mind remove itself,
dropping aside
so we might react
to what surrounds
rather than continuing
in the endless contemplation
of the minutiae of each day;
this crippling analysis
leaving us moored in place -
when will we be moved
to move
another sleepless night
spent staring into
darkness' shadows
searching for the ambrosia
to ease a mind
overused in worry
of so many issues
beyond its reach -
too high a price
for too little return
I scream my fears at the page,
its blank surface
soaks up the ink of my doubts,
it absorbs my rage,
it gives nothing back,
its gift
is the place
where I ease the weight
of these burdens
I have chosen to carry
