The Rhythm Method

Half of the people in my house

Have fallen ill.

Half.

Meaning, two.

Which really, is more than there needs to be.

And I am desperately trying to not get sick.

Because it is barfy sickness.

And that is not alright.

On a completely unrelated note:

I have written 115 pages of poetry.

One hundred and fifteen.

In the matter of maybe, a year.

That,

Is a lot.

And sometimes,

I pause,

And I think on why I write.

And most times,

I come up blank.

It's as though I have to really dig for the answer,

As to why I do what I do.

It's like asking a cat

"Why are you a cat?"

They really just are.

They can be nothing else.

And so I feel the same way,

Somehow

I was born unto this fate,

Of writing.

I couldn't tell you why I do it,

But it doesn't hinder me from doing it.

And no matter how I dig for an answer,

There isn't one.

The simplest, yet truest answer is that

I just do.

It is all that I can do.

I do nothing else as well.

And I guess,

That's ok.

And most days,

It really isn't ok,

I don't want to just do.

But today,

It seems like a very ok thing.

Again,

I can't tell you why.

It's some shrouded mystery.

This whole sphere of thought.

Adieu.

Have a lovely Monday.