Enough

Enough

I have recently discovered a new type

of poem, new to me at least, and I

love how the pattern of repeated lines

changes the meaning of the line.  Here

is one I wrote this week, amid

my new found passion of

cleaning out the clutter and

embracing the space left behind.

Enough

I thought I was afraid of not having enough,

the fear woke me gasping at night, glossy ads choked me by day.

I would pile and stash my “keep me safe stuff”

so whatever I needed I had, cold and hunger kept at bay.

The fear woke me gasping at night, glossy ads choked me by day.

Gathering, caring for, and using my stuff, blocked my creative stream.

So whatever I needed I had, cold and hunger kept at bay;

but so was contentment, empty space to think and dream.

Gathering, caring for, and using my stuff, blocked my creative stream.

I scrutinized what others had, to make sure I was, I mean had, enough

But gone was contentment, empty space to think and dream.

The dreams grew dusty, as did my things, and I began to resent my stuff.

I scrutinized what others had, to make sure I was, I mean had, enough

Without my stuff everyone, even me, would see what I lack within.

The dreams grew dusty, as did my things, and I began to resent my stuff.

Clearing out is emotional, but the breeze feels good, I’m starting to feel free again.

The empty space left behind is filled with a deep peace.

I would pile and stash my “keep me safe stuff”

No longer; the clawing need for more begins to cease.

I thought I was afraid of not having enough.

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