written 2015

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I must confess to you, my dear, There’s something about the night And the feeling of paper beneath ink That draws out confessions like a canvas to the painter   I must confess to you, dear,
Official diagnosis: Anxiety and Depression In Kindergarten terms, that means My brain won’t shut off And sometimes I can’t remember How to be happy   It means that when I get home at night
Power On.   Channel One: A little girl plays outside, kickball, with her neighbors.  They laugh and run.  The sky starts to get dark, Curfew.  She wants to finish the round; it’s her turn to kick. 
Poetry floats from their mouth like dragon smoke in December. Happiness relaxes on their cheeks like a glittered recliner and the sound of their laugh gets caught in my hair.  
Every night I hear it call to mefrom across the room,the tintinnabulation of its twin tines enticing me to indulge; threatening, promising to keep its hold on me forever.    
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