Poem: A Writer's Notebook, One-Thousand-Eight-Hundred-And-Sixty-Five

It is falling apart,

or I am just failing
to be the same, now,
to do the same.
It may be that is fine

and I am just upsetting myself
with paranoia and concern.
I have not failed,
have slowed and pulled back,

perhaps, but not stopped
or been absent from duty,
even if I have been less diligent.
I need to find a balance

and let myself live with it.
Probably, I won't do that.
Probably, I will go backwards,
will return to the way it was

even though I know, now,
that it is not always possible
and may not be good for me
going forward.

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