With my tattered zombie hands
I force my redundant to chase
a cursor that doesn’t care I’ve
complained my way through
another white page.
The fruit of most days isn’t
plucked from a tree of success,
but the callous repetition
of what I won’t release.
Honesty is a bitch.
She doesn’t baby my feelings.
There’s no sugar in my ear,
or honey on the bread of
my confessions.
In the rawness of an untouched Monday
I look into a mirror I can’t manipulate,
or fool with a rose-colored tactic my bitterness
can be erased with a gentle air brush,
and wonder if I have enough
lipstick to paint a smile.
©Susie Clevenger 2025
Sometimes you just
have to work on yourself.
Welcome to my therapy.
