Breakfast

Sometimes I think my life is going terribly wrong,
as if I’m stuck in a room where the walls inch closer
and closer every second,
and if I don’t get out, it’ll squeeze out of me every bit of sanity, 
like oranges until they stop dripping.

Sometimes I’m constantly backpacking 
burden after burden;
I feel like a plate that struggles with a stack of pancakes,
one after another,
after another.
When will they stop?

There are even days when I lash out
scarring those near me,
like oil that flails when bacon hits the pan:
unpleasant, unpredictable, unintentional.

But I suppose I should be happy.

Some rot in prison,
some are homeless,
some are disabled,
some live alone,
some lose sons, daughters, friends, and siblings
under a sunken ferry.

Some sink with the ferry.

I suppose I should be happy.
I am blessed to be able to digest
the harm that comes my way.

Some people don’t eat breakfast today,
because they’re still working on last night’s dinner.

My condolences for South Korea and those related to the victims of the Sewol Ferry incident.