July 12 '16 Moth to a flame. My brain is lame. I can’t maintain. My composure. My eyes are watering. As I type at work. Emotions in swelled oceans. Inside me. I’m trying to calm it. Before my boss spots it. Before I must trot it. To the bathroom to burst. To exhale titanic waves. To release my stirred pain. That unignorable. Unapologetic. It’s been nagging for attention. Building its case. Building its fortress in my pit. In my heart, my being. Moth to a flame. Titanic ocean waves. Sweeping me away. As I fight for concentration. It’s not one thing or another. It’s one thing and another. My thoughts swirling, twirling. Without the tutu. They dance in torn drapes. In hurricane winds. Torrential rains. Monsoon, tsunami. I don't want this poem to end. It's transmuting my sorrow. Frequencies raising in rapids. Instead of salt water. My page is almost full. My coworkers suspicious. Feelings up and down. Like the tide that I ride. So I must go. Dream of workdays end. Using my consciousness. To fast forward. To manifest my release. Back to the wild. Where my untamed spirit belongs. Moth to the sun… I need a spliff.