To be Written Upon Waking

You wake to the winter dark
Closing in immediately
Targeting the heart

The slow, stabbing pain
Informs
It is one of those days

Where the mask will
be required
Just to make it through

Pain squeezes
Your stomach
Pronouncing unworthiness

Reading doesn’t soothe
Eyes spinning at the words
Leeching away all meaning

Feeling fraudulent
Already spent
Before the day’s even begun

Writing this down
As a way not to drown
And destroy the days of four.

The Daily Battle

I have no enemies
Except myself
There are no lofty expectations
But my own

Still, the thoughts linger
A constant buzzing drone

Lacking any perspective
Imposter in my own home
Masquerader in my comfort zone

A detriment to my health
This warring with myself

And yet,
Each poem is a balm
A therapy session to
Inflict no harm.

Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a…