The Art of Relaxation — New Poems

He cried wolf to everyone and everything.
 Louder each time.
 And clear as day, they tiptoed away—
 not out of fear,
 but fatigue.
 They tried confronting the evil
 with mirrors and guilt,
 fumbling in a self-sabotaging ballet.
 You know the one—
 where the victim wears the suspect’s face
 and everyone claps anyway.
 So how do you relax on a Saturday?
 Easy—
 you don’t.
 You’re not even allowed
 to speak of old aches.
 Saying “I’ve been through it”
 feels like betrayal to the future self
 who’s supposed to be “better.”
 Moving forward
 starts to taste like a quiet no.

 LOL—
 “point blank,” right?
 Like you can just choose silence
 when your mind
 won’t shut the hell up.
 When you sit with yourself,
 do you shut out what’s around you?
 Or does it leak in—
 laughing,
 tearing,
 smiling?
 That’s the cycle now.
 You’ve outrun the rage,
 outgrown the itch to rewind.
 So you sit
 with your weathered optimism
 and fractured peace.
 Smile,
 laugh,
 tear up.
 Repeat.
 It’s not “relaxation.”
 It’s recognition.
 And yeah—
 it lives in you now.

 So how do I relax?
 By digging through the mess
 to find whatever pieces
 still sound like me.