Poetry

That May Be, 5 (126.)

Maybe I shouldn’t read so many news reports,
but maybe I should be more informed.
I may be too good at feeling bad about all kinds of stuff.
This may have something to do with a bit of my
perfectionist streak – it’s not too wide,
but it can take over sometimes.
It could be that in my endless quest for self-betterment,
I’ve forgotten the importance of the process.
Some pragmatism may cure me of my anxiety.
If I could just accept that mistakes are part of learning,
that wilting is part of growing,
I wouldn’t be so afraid.
I may need to sprint ahead in a mad dash
before I see the dangers approaching,
and rethink my route as I go.
Flexibility is the greatest trait, I think.
Physically, mentally, okay, maybe not emotionally.
One should be able to feel many different feelings, but maybe not
one after the other in rapid succession – I’m not sure if that’s
a disorder or not. And I’m sorry for even suggesting it.
Shit’s rough out there.
I may need to make room in my being
for every kind of anything.
Now that’s flexibility.
To take on all that weight
and not break, well,
that may be
a specific kind of insanity.
It might be time
to rest.

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