There’s hardly room to breathe in this monsoon I call life.
At first it’s just a trickle, just a leak under the door-
but with newfound knolls the windows burst
and brine batters ‘cross the floor.
Each wave’s a spoiling slap of unrequited obligation,
a vinegar vendetta to submerge procrastination.
I row against the roiling rush
of rotting deadlines and clotting chores;
I swim up, and up, and up…
but I’ll drown before I reach the shore.
There’s hardly room to breathe in a sea of strain and strife.
But hey, drowning in decisions is something I call life.
Stellular Scribe 