Months after my dad gave me my first leather bound journal, I read Maya Angelou's I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. If the beautiful journal was a hint that I should write, then her book was a revelation. A couple of years later, in the midst of crippling depression and dealing with crappy stuff, I read and reread her poems (as opposed to my Renaissance Art texts) for comfort.
Insomniac
There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.
More than 20 years later, I repeat her words to myself sometimes.
Thank you for how you made me feel.
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