PSI

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Much of what is inside me is put there by me.

I take the hose and fill me up
until I am inflated like a zeppelin,
only I do not leave the ground,
weighed down by burdens
I do not have to bear and ropes too numerous to name.

There is no flight with this fuel only the inevitable explosion and I go down like the Hindenburg.

The clouds await when I am ready to release,
but this letting go,
of regrets,
of bitterness,
of unrealistic expectations,
is a difficult thing,
made even more so by the stressors of everyday life.

I put the hose back in the gas pump and walk across the lot to the store to pay.

Inside on the radio they’re playing “Under Pressure” by David Bowie.

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