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Mostly Minutiae No. 27

Sidetracked most of the day. I forced myself
to study and read this morning because my
vision was blurred. Eye blur and brain blur.

It started off okay. Bagel with a fresh chive
and onion cream cheese. Not whipped, so
a smaller “shmear.”

As I sit here looking at the clock, I realize
that I missed my espresso window. Run
the risk of going from little sleep to no sleep.

Got to get the trash cans in. I can tell they
picked up because one can is eight feet
away from the other. (Be right back.)

Plagued by sensual thoughts all afternoon;
not good ones. Just the ones that line up my
childhood abuse with my life experience.

You see, EMDR and the brain continue to
work, continue to process when you least
expect it. Like I want to write but my brain

is frozen on a nipple in time that tie adult me
and little boy me together. Every relationship
I’ve ever had goes by in review while the

little boy and I just stare at each other. It has
been a day of severe muscle ache. Maybe
it is the weather. Maybe the fog in my head

will move on so my eyes and head will
clear. I know, I know, I tagged this coffee.
Better I should talk about coffee. Coffee is

rated PG13; not raw me today. Listen, I’m
being healed no matter what you think when
you read this mess.

(I’ve said nothing and the word count hit
two-hundred and fifty. Where is this going?)

Hot tea at lunch did it. It wasn’t the coffee.
The coffee was rich, inviting, milky and
sweet. (Like my thoughts.) Not so the tea.

Tea sent me straight to the bathroom.
My thought life went downhill. Then again,
it probably was the sandwich; not the tea

at all. (Getting dark out. Just heard the
front screen door close. Think she is
checking the mail.)

I’m going to be healed. Feeling will feel.
I’m going to be restored. I will feel.
Sweetly touch and be touched.

There will be life before coffee, after coffee,
with coffee, without coffee. All good with
or without the pain. “And you say?”

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:


Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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