The Inhibitionist’s Lament

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Sara is all wrapped-up,

In her happy place,

her humble living space.

The novel,

on her night table,

Has dust on it’s near-mint jacket.

Her desk,

Has an eclectic collection,

of clutter,

tchotchkes,

trash,

and unfinished business.

The floor is adorned,

with the finest once-worn

clothes, yet, under her bed,

was where she hid the rest of her mess.

She spent her time in warmth and comfort,

Pushing away remnants of waste and excess,

To the back of her mind,

and the last uncovered corners,

of her room.

“Tomorrow,”

she said yesterday,

“I should have to bite the bullet and pick this stuff up,”

It’s 2:18 P.M.

and she has not yet left bed.

But this is the life of the inhibitionist,

Spend your life covering your problems,

Until they become too hard to deal with.

“If at once you don’t succeed,

Recede,

Recede,

Recede.”