I am old frustrated thought
I look into my once eagle eyes
and find them dim before my dead mother,
I see through clouded egg whites with days
passing by like fog feathers.
I trip over old experiences and expressions,
try hard to suppress them or revisit them;
I’m a fool in my damn recollections,
not knowing what to keep and what to toss out–
but the dreams flow like white flour and deceive
me till they capture the nightmare of the past images
in a black blanket wrapped up
and wake me before my psychiatrist.
I only see this nut once every three months.
It is at times like these I know not where I walk
or venture. I trip over my piety and spill my coffee cup.
I seek sanctuary in the common place of my nowhere life.
It is here the days pass and the years slip like ice cubes–
solid footing is a struggle in the socks of depression.
I am old frustrated thought;
passing by like fog feathers.

About the Author

Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His brand new chapbook, From Which Place the Morning Rises is now available at http://www.lulu.com/ and can be purchased at http://www.lulu.com/content/4654746 or http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1395387.