Arrival time now
at the self-medication station
where I sit behind the counter
and fill my own prescriptions
to feed the yearning for a funny joke
or a crystal vision.
Pointing with precision
at the problem then
painting pictures all around it,
the mother-me is thinking of
grounding the other-me
until I learn to keep my bathroom clean
and stop to relish in the heaven or hell
of the living daydream instead of
screaming "Escape!" and attempting to make a run for it.
I suffer because I know that
I know better, but
I'm still standing outside in the snow
without shoes on, singing the blues
in fusion with hues of deep purple and lackluster green.
I mean really, baby,
can't we just get a move on and make it past two?
The eternal toddler trapped
only by an always increasing sense of
potential mishaps and wondering if she can sit back and forfeit
a society whose headphones are in and cranked
while walking through a heavily trafficked intersection
without looking both ways.
Call me crazy, but
I hear the melodies, distant
across mountains calling.
I'd rather be a river running than
part of the system, humming.