Possessed Noun

I’m feeling less like a pronoun and more like a possessed noun. Though my name has two syllables, I find the constant is less my consonants and vowels and more apostrophe s’s. ‘S Mom/wife/daughter whatever. These hats that I wear so much I forget how to take them off.

I know it’s a bad day when the music doesn’t play and the ear worm in my head says Totinos totinos hot pizza rolls over and over and over again. And I remember that I’m still in here and I hate Totino’s and the autocorrect that refuses to accept that I mean precisely what I’m typing.

I can take a deep breath but sometimes I’m left feeling less than equivalent in my own equation. The stress I profess is at my own behest. I know it’s me kicking my own ass here. If I could let loose and to thine mine own self be true, I’d prolly be far less enslaved by apostrophes and madness.

It’s a malaise, I’m in a daze, my life’s work in phrase. Or a phase that I refuse to just accept it. That I am where I am, and that’s all that I am. And maybe stop living all my nows in tomorrow. I know yesterday has gone up in flames that I love to stoke with my own sorrow. The problems are mine, I admit it, I’m not really fine, but fine enough to see I’m not fitting in here.

Pick up a pen, or two thumbs, beat it out to hearts’ drum. Come alive, wake on up, you’re still in here. Just because it’s all rough doesn’t mean you give up. You just dig deeper and find the reason you came here.

And it’s them, part of the plan, you’re here to teach and to learn and find peace in the spaces you’ve created. And there’s the shift, the apostrophe slips, though not my two syllable self but the one on the shelf. The one who comes alive when written.

I hope you can find yourself today too. Even if it takes all day.

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