b e mccomb Oct 31
mind games
with myself

a quivering equilibrium
of keeping myself too
busy to sink into depression
but not so overwhelmed
that the anxiety
swallows me whole

and the scales
are swinging

i am not
in control
of my own
life right now

cuticles stained green
hair grown scraggly
wrists that go
numb and tingle

i am only

too old to be carefree
and yet too young
to be callused and weathered
made miserable by time

the mind games get
no referee
to call time out

my bath is still
hot but i suppose that as
with dishes it should be
emptied when no longer clear

and i am clouding
my own judgement

so the rusty red water
drains away
leaving bubbles
on my shoulders

mind games must halt
impulse control

because still the
blood remains
i can’t wash
it off me

it’s too

what’s wrong
with me

i am scared of
many things
the most frightening being
and admitting what i’m
really feeling

make that a fear
of myself

of the
mind games

and now what’s
done is done and
i will sleep or
lie awake in tears

when people ask what
happened to me
i tell them i was sad
and anxious and
got over it two
years ago

because not even i know
what’s wrong with me

how i’m supposed
to win the mind games

somebody help me
i need a referee
copyright 10/30/18 by b. e. mccomb
b e mccomb Oct 29
people build
their homes

out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill

by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed

from the color of the walls
and state of the floor

right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap

and the way the words
come out of their mouths

i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap

tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out

and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast

the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway

with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives

yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window

your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night

and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter

*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side
copyright 10/29/18 by b. e. mccomb
b e mccomb Oct 29
greeted by the musty smell
of yesterday’s bacon grease
the familiar scrape
of sliding glass and brass
and the blast of hot air
from an open oven

turn on the lights
unlock the doors
whining and whirring as coffee
falls from the grinder chute
the steam wands hiss
water spits through
the filter basket and i
find myself awake

and standing with my
elbows in a bin of hot
water and soapy dishes
the crust over my eyes
loosening with the
warmth and wet

flip the sign
wave the flag
the plates clank
as i walk by

say the same lines
i say every day
toaster to register
sink to grill

an autopilot person
as the world spins

ivy on the brick walls turns red
snow blankets the stone steps
the streetlights stay on through
the fog all morning

the picture windows
rattle when the semis
roar around the corner
at night i lie awake
and imagine them
cutting the turn too close
and crashing through plate glass

i can’t sleep
not when morning
looms so soon
when the sky out the
window will be black
when i wake up

black when i
eat dinner
and gray whenever
else i look

and it’s true
i don’t have it
as rough as
some people

but that doesn’t mean
it’s all so easy for me

i’ve found by living in
the early morning
i can achieve the same
effect as staying up
too late but with less
negative consequences

but the things that are whispered
when the world is still dark
aren’t things to be whispered
to the faint of heart
copyright 10/3/18 by b. e. mccomb
b e mccomb Oct 3
oh the joys of idyllic
small town life in this
whitewashed village where
everyone knows everyone
and everyone knows
everyone’s business

where the groceries are
overpriced and the taxes
are high and everyone but
the wife knows he’s cheating

where everything is a scandal
and nobody will admit to knowing
anything but they’ll still talk
about it behind closed doors

there are supposedly prostitutes
on main street but i only ever see
the drunk and drugged out there
and if someone is single there is
someone determined
to find them a match

all and all a very pleasant
charming life we lead here
what with all the arrests
and the highway department
yammering away on things
and the way the tops of the semis
scrape the bottom of the
traffic lights on their way though

something charming about
the way the sides of the buildings
all need a good power washing
and there’s probably lots of
good clean arsenic in
the water supply

a most sleepy
little burg
they say

spend some time
with us and
you’ll find a community
you’ll find a home

you’ll also
find a thing or two
you’ll wish
you didn’t know
copyright 9/24/18 by b. e. mccomb
b e mccomb Sep 21
i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada

same sneakers
same dress
same faces
fresh sweat

suddenly the stars
all fall together
and my life comes
careening full circle

your arms around my waist
flashing blue lights
in our eyes as i scream
every word that kept me
sane through years of
hopelessness and rain

you move your mouth
trying your best to
sing along with me
but it all comes out dada

and shockingly
i can see myself

and i find myself at last
the girl in an owl city song
hand in hand with
my very own adam young

now i know
all wishes come true
even the ones you didn’t
realize you made

and isn’t it the most
cosmic destiny
how years after we stop
when we storm on through
washed out hopes

one day the pieces
just fall into place
with closure and new
beginnings all at once

rainbows and clouds
epiphanies and ecstasy
dreams and the dreamers
you and me
copyright 9/20/18 by b. e. mccomb
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