When I come to in the black,
that dull ache
in my gut
literally waking me,
those first few seconds
are a blissful fog
-the first real peace
I’ve enjoyed all day.
The worry hasn’t caught up yet, see?
Tired, but confused:
'Why is my stomach in knots, so?'
Then, of course
the mind fesses up
and it returns,
keeping me busy
through tosses and churns.
Oh, now I’m cooked ‘til dawn!
Of course they say
it’ll get better-
just hold on a little longer.
I’m strong enough,
I suppose.
But I'm tired of being tired.
Tired of being so damned worried all the time.
Sometimes, I try to think
of how Momma
must have looked
when she first took me in her arms.
I bet she glowed BRIGHT with love,
and that smile of hers
-that had rejuvenated even the most lost of souls-
wider than ever.
I see her whispering to an infant child,
to me,
of hope:
‘You’ll have a fine life, my son. I see great things for you.’
All at once
That image heals
and hurts.
Mainly hurts, I guess.

They say it’ll get better.
I’m ready.

Ezy Reading is out every month.