the precipitation in southeastern north america

holding onto shreds of evidence
that i have lived and breathed in
the quick little ghost of a memory
swirls away to reappear like smoke

i am timid, not a spider stalking these memories.
fragile.
i will play the part of myself in these apparitions if not for the caution of lessons learned.
it is so easy to become a child.

stress and control: two

#2

once i tried to make a list of all the things i'd ever owned.
in my head, i still think that if only
i could take inventory it would somehow change my life for better.
i look through to-do lists past and i am transported.
a sick joke on the world of scrapbooking
almost fondly, i remember my past stresses
not comparing, only favorably transporting myself to a time  slower.

stress and control: one

#1

control
what a laughing vague whore concept
making us rush to an invisible finish line
deadline, and the only way to conquer the breathlessness
is to lose concept of time or keep fighting.

PUSH.  push on.

every day there's a new unheard of aspect
to replace that which we've no moment's rest in which to forget
head crowded and body tense, i know i've forgotten
something.  what is it this time?
how many things have i forgotten in this fashion?

what importance do you attribute to thoughts and tasks never finished, yet no longer existing?