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New Year Blues, by Britta Benson

First day of a new year and I’m scared to mess it up. This won’t last very long, but while it does, it’s uncomfortably annoying. Can’t wait for day two. Three. Eleven.

New Year Blues

This clean, pristine sheet of twenty twenty two looks nothing like me.

No hiccups, no shipwrecks, not even an inkblot just plain, gawping pages,

filled with the constant pale emptiness of rudest perfection. What a joke.

I claw through my dogeared, coffee stained notebook of twenty twenty one,

crumbs, tears and all, clutch my mess one last time before letting it go.

Then I stare again at this first of January, shrink, become a hesitant wimp,

afraid to make my mark, throw my words, my paint at this snow white canvas.

This is my brush stroke, my first poem, a stumble attempt while I’m waiting

for a day, a line or two, for the strong, quiet unstoppable me to break through.

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