It's inborn,
something like a gnat
buzzing and nipping,
buzzing, nipping at your
ears, nose, teeth, gums.
And you without your arms.
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
You've felt it since
you were able to ask for things,
but never could put it into words.
It gnaws at most inopportune times:
Lazing Sunday hammock swings,
trinket trips to Kabul and Maldives,
beach dreams in St. Martin and Belize.
It's a tirade at joy's grand entrance,
glacial walls of stunning failure
at peak times of success.
It's the milkman replacing
fulls with empties, the
paperboy delivering news containing only comics.
And you can only stutter,
I've got to ask . . . ask . . .
Instead, you
turn on the TV,
pour a drink,
phone a friend for some trivia reverie.
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Very intriguing. I have enjoyed the reading of "Spiritual Gonzo".
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Be safe,
Karen
You could try a new form however. the layout throws me off at first glance. most ppl, unlike myself, are scared of poetry, and rarely give it a chance.