“I’m Angry and I’m Tired All the Time”

Tonight, at my writing group, our leader played us the Leonard Cohen song “Treaty” as our ten minute writing prompt.

I’ve been flaky on blogging. No denying that.

When I got the idea of blogging every day for the month of December, I thought I ought to try a little discipline, and tonight’s prompt may or may not be a good way to start that. It’s not particularly uplifting, but it’s reflective of my current mood.

If you’re interested in hearing the song first, since we all listened to it before we wrote, here’s a YouTube video:


Several snatches of words stuck out at me, and clung to me as I continued to listen, so I just wrote what I was feeling as I heard those words. Here it is, without further ado:

I try to keep my own skin thin to let the beauty in.

There can be beauty in sin, if you believe in sin.

Whatever you believe in, the skin must be thin

for the beauty of the world to find its way in.

But when the skin is that thin, the poison enters into everything.

I feel I’m swimming in a great pool

full of all the poison of the world,

treading water, keeping my head above the surface,

stretching my neck and lifting my chin, to keep the poison from sloshing in,

past my lips and over my tongue.

But my skin is still thin, and the poison that I’m steeped in,

it seeps in,

and enters into everything.

Where does the poison begin?

It comes from our minds and our mouths.

I leak it out of my corners and seams, despite trying to lock it tightly within.

My feelings of sickness from the poison inside only add more poison to life.

I drip puddles of it on the ground; it sprays and spurts

when I raise my voice in anger, disperses into the air

for someone else to breathe.

It’s so hard, so hard to reign it in,

because I’m angry and I’m tired all the time.

For it’s easier to be mad than sad, feels better to shout and curse

than to weep the poison out

in great steaming tears

that stain my clothes.

I wish we had a treaty

to stop putting all our poison

into each other.

But then, where would it go?




This giant plumeria plant
has conquered my living room.
In a space too small for its sprawl,
one leaf curls against a window.

It belongs out of doors, not in.
It stretches and fills the corner.
Its three-pronged stalks grow out, not up,
narrow trunks clad in smooth bark.

This giant plumeria plant
is impractical and impossible.
It stares at me, it’s daring me.
I have not answered its challenge.

I allow it to hold its court,
towering in condescension.
The meeker houseplants bow in awe,
the large ones seem somehow threatened.

A fanfare of leaves explodes
from the end of each stubby branch.
It feels like a jungle in here
when sitting tucked underneath it.

It has inches on me, high and wide.
I am dwarfed inside my own home.
My dignity falters in the face
of this monstrous potted plant.

This giant plumeria plant
should not get under my skin.
I should not resent its bulk,
for I wish not for more of my own.

It is awkward and it is unwieldy,
nonconforming and big for its britches.
It roadblocks a chunk of my house,
blocking my view out the window.

I think I have made it quite clear
my position on potted Goliaths,
but I fear I’ve surrendered my rights,
for here I am, granting it quarters.

A reluctant truce has been reached —
as long as it minds its own business,
I shall not take up arms against
this enormous plumeria plant.



Here’s a little something lighthearted in the spirit of the season.


Hot apple cider,

so perfectly fall,

with a bite like a lemon

smoothed over with sweet.

Cinnamon spice

fragrance drifts to my nose,

brings heat to my mouth,

travels all the way down.

It is sharp in my throat

but soft on my tongue,

and it eases the chill

of hands wrapped ‘round the mug.

Pumpkin this, pumpkin that,

they’re all very swell,

but my heart’s in the apple;

I’m a New England gal.