Awkward pain percolates
Nicely disturbing my writing, a
Perfect peace broken by long
Gone wilting, dog gone annoying
Is what it is. Why are we so obsessed
With each other’s lives, continually
Comparing, contenting ourselves in
Our differences, that which singles us
Out, truly out if we are
Truly different?

Yet still that sense of
Unease, discomfort, could be
Food, protein or sugar deficiency,
Or simply that earlier disquietude, still
Chain chipping, Chinese drip torture,
When I should be working on my novel,
Still annoyed at myself even though
The annoyance is gone, I am not the only
One, am I?

Am I?

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