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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.