A Reservoir of Words

You fold yourself up in the
tall chair
periodically, head down
eyes averted from the
screen holding your
responsibilities.

Flee to the Joppa
of your mind;
do whatever it takes
to make your escape
(but as with Jonah, these
diversions will be fruitless)

Your avoidance lulls you,
the world barricaded
behind the barrier
you’ve created—
constructed with anxiety,
feelings of
never-good-enough—
maybe it will all be
gone
when you resurface.

The leviathan waits
for you underwater
while you sleep.

You evade my prying
eyes with more skill
than is normal—
practiced in the
art of waiting out
your foes.

Recalcitrance will delay
the inevitable
but only for a moment.

Your turbulence is
visible; a contained storm
growing more pressurized with
each passing
minute
hour
day
that you stay under;
hinting to the world around you of
your pain with
little huffs.

Face it; face the
monster from which
you run. It will be
your grace.