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Photo by Mat Reding on Unsplash

I hate to talk about ‘me’.
Believe it or not, I am not the center of the universe.
I know others suffer worse than I.
I will probably say that with my dying breath.
I can’t allow myself too much self-pity.

The Black Beast is hovering around me.
It tempts and demands and confuses.
It dresses evil in gold and bright colors.
It offers more painful visions of the future.
It stirs the pot of peppermint and arsenic,
and asks me to drink.

I call on the good spirits, and it sends pretty demons.
Promises of wealth and future pain.
Threats of imminent disaster.
It makes these real in my mind.
It weakens my resolve.

It hates that I write these words.
It doesn’t want to be envisioned.
It resists my efforts to stand.
It demands my attention to its darkness.

A moment away.
Another med and a timeout.

Will this bleak time last forever?
Is it Seasonal Affective?
Is it the loss of my cat?
Am I so weak that I cannot thrive?
(‘Thrive’ seems like a fantasy word now)

Karma? God’s wrath? Or a ‘natural’ happening?
I don’t know…anything.
I want to lash out, but nothing is there.
I want to be strong.
There is no mass to what weighs me down.

I will survive another day.
I want to inspire.
Today is just a bad day.
And this is as creative as I can be right now.

Dana Sanford ~ 1/14/2019

Thank you for reading!

Poet. Philosopher. A sense of Humor. 60 years ago I rode the winds at the top of a tall cottonwood. Buy me a coffee @

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