🪷 my old crony clouds

another poem about anxiety

My old, crony clouds,
gray with strain, hang around--

but sometimes, somehow, I can rise
   above them, where the sun still shines--
      and things are actually just fine.

      Up here, I can catch my breath--

   until the next time I forget

and fall back down
among my clouds.

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sunrise recently

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In the notebook

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