Curing poetry is an inexact science

not quite an art neither.

The men and women tut and nod

at what I have to say

they feign their interest

and scribble things I cannot see

I think they think I think too much

and I think that they are right

they give me pills to numb .

I think it’s working.

Words that wracked me a month ago

now barely leave a dint on my wrist

it’s all been blunted.

Often I think it was the right thing to do

but I miss my bleak,

my raw.

I am merely bland and fuzzy.

 Oh well

Ho Hum

bring on the greetings cards.