Cardboard Box Poem

Stepping into the box
I close the cardboard door
calling it prison.
Putting weights on top
I dragged to-dos inside
until there was no room to breathe.

When I heard no new box would come
I saw the disarray of my prison box.
The to-dos were holding the weights at bay.
There was no escape.

Then I saw my heart cracking,
Then I knew I had to slumber,
Then in the morning’s light I saw
I had put the weight on myself.
I could release the to-dos.
I found my breath and joy
watching my troubles prance away.

My Nightmare Mind Box

writing

My mind is a box, lately, that I am trapped inside. My optimism says there must be a door, a window, or a hidden way out. I don’t see one. All I see are wall entrapping myself in my mind causing me to be unable to do much of anything I would consider being me.

To the left is the security of my day job, creating a thick time-consuming wall. To the right is my obligations and my bills stacked as high as my job with no holes to escape from. Behind me is my past failures, current fears, and reminders that the future can not be known. There is a reason my back is towards that wall, by focusing on that wall I would sit down, stop fighting and accept the box I’m in. Above me, on the ceiling of this box are all the people, careers, and talents that I compare myself to. I place them above me, although I am the only me. Below me are all my ideas trapped under glass in a cloudy stew of tar and mire. Still I know they’re there, just like a mother knows her baby. In front of me are painting of could-be’s, maybe’s, and the future if I only live my current life . I know there are keys to unlock each painting, except for the immanent future, that one does not need a key. The keys to my dream futures are unknown, lost or far from me. I do not believe they are in this box. All I can do is stand and look at the pretty pictures hoping and looking for at least one key.

Perhaps breaking the glass under my feet will lead to a key.

Writing Process (a free verse poem)

poetry

Poetry comes out
with my eyes closed
when sleep in near;
brilliant poems flow
when paper is far
and repeating is not enough.
Wisdom and intelligence overwhelm me
when the only outlet is to speak it to myself
or when no one is listening.

Yet when I open my eyes
words fly away
like fading dreams they fly.
The poetry inside is trapped
like a rat in a house unable to be freed
as soon as the paper is in reach.
I open my mouth when some is around
and only babble spews out.

So I write with my eyes closed,
freeing my poems from the paper trap
and write when no on is around
with the quiet of my mind.