Photo by James Rathmell on Unsplash

A poem about when rumination overruns you.

The dream she couldn’t escape

Photo by Baehaki Hariri on Unsplash

It was hazy tonight. The mist so thick I could barely make out the stars it hid. Was that like life I wondered? Like my life? Was the fog in my head so thick, it covered something beneath that in a different circumstance, could have shined? No, no, of course not. What was I thinking? I berated myself as I walked onward through the mist -that was-until my foot sunk into something softer than gravel, yet rough and pebbly-sand.

I let my other foot join her twin, when that salty air filled my nostrils. I breathed in that sea breeze…

Sometimes I start writing and then the poem writes itself.

Photo by Nick Brookenheimer on Unsplash

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” she told me as she clicked her pen shut, straightened out her glasses and eyed me with the certainty that only comes from an experienced psychologist whose undoubtedly figured her patient out.

On the outside I nodded, but on the inside I said but you don’t know me, not the real me — just the tapestry I weaved for you to know. I wanted her to be right, but there lie the problem. Unless she actually spent a day with me, or a week as a fly on my shoulder, she wouldn’t fully understand the…


Heather Michele ~ Nature wonderer ~ Daydreamer ~ Aspiring writer of poetry & stories I like to call, The Feathertales.

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