Here comes the familiar shadow,
on schedule for temporary malfunctions.
Stepping off the dock with purpose in relaxed steps;
a rehearsed motion to proceed into deconstruction.
The same greeting at the doorstep.
ushered in to sit and stare off into the back of my skull,
laser-like precision undermining defenses,
leaking out the lies of positive mindsets
drying on stained linoleum next to yeast lakes and small mistakes.
Shake hands to reach agreement;
let the nadirs inhabit the page again.
Swipe a pen left and right as a dance held by a string,
playing puppet master over trauma that dictates how it roves.
It’s all too common to shatter routine’s grip.
A choking grasp is too frequent to voice objection,
but a lover’s hug that shows meaning
and the reasoning behind the screaming quiet of the room.
Open up for the familiar shadow.
Notebooks strewn across without weight to bear it down,
be it metaphor or literal or caught between,
convinced of the veracity of harm when asked for,
but unsure why it’s requested beside an opportunity to thrive;
to catch the spotlight upon the crude language of my wrists,
placing all hope onto a fragile medium
where slow suffocation is a destiny
and I’m losing the argument against it.
Welcome the familiar shadow as it arrives.
Patchwork prose is enough to clog the blood.
Unleash the limitations and the reoccurring thoughts will leech.
Cross fingers and believe it leads to peace.
~
❤ Mitch
The Works of Mitch Worden 