On Being Me:
Quite sure of myself on my best days,
days separated by hours, weeks,
or months at a time,
Feet solidly planted, my roots augured in deep,
I drift in time’s tide;
so much flotsam
so many miles from where I went into the sea.
The whips and scorns of time
born with serenity until frustration,
shame boil over
to attack an uncaring
universe that plots against me.