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The Storm

think back -

surely there was calm
before the storm
wasn’t the brain neatly divided
into tidy little segments of productivity
patiently waiting their turns

  now this bastard child
  growing like a weed
  spreading like poison ivy
  pushes to the front

on the task at hand
in full concentration
search for the perfect phrase
nothing comes to mind

  the child again
  shoves through
  a new approach
  this time warm, soft, hot, sweet

practice begets strength
but more likely
time distance
softens the edges of memory

  starve the child
  shrink it to a pea
  weakening the cries of passion
  to a dull moan
  of blame