PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Days and nights flutter by like dangling
hand-cream left on the table. Something
calls me. Someone? A voice, internal or
external I don't know? Mysteries define
the dishes left in the sink. Floors to
wash, furniture to dust. Dying to
think upon. So much to do! So
much to do! Is this voice still
active even in the busy of the
cleaning? Yes, there it is. I
feel it. Feel it as vividly as a
needle inserted into arm. It
won't hurt they tell you! Are
you fucking kidding me? You're
slipping a sharp piece of metal
into my arm. Oh well, can't
be in that mode now. Busy, busy,
busy beaver who must occupy
the time. Time comes and goes.
This cliche is as vibrant as the
band-aide on the arm. Just
a bit ago, or more, I was
buying the latest 45 and
having conversations about
the world and how it must change. 
My, we argued so passionately
on our personal philosophies.
Blink of an eye, and 40 years
or more go by. Now I'm busy
making busy, pretending the
pain I feel is part of the process.