I’m not that person

As I reread books poems from Years past I kind of feel sorry for that person She who always worried too much About her children Who allowed herself to get caught up In demeaning relationships Who seemed to thrive on crisis attempted to control life And wrote all about it Spilled every angry bean Every self deprecating bean And writing was the therapy But now I’m not that person Did I just mellow with age? Or find such a well-balanced relationship? Not really Cause I do like the go go go Of activity Things like burningman and steampunk Of art and lots of friends And the relationship? I’m a mistress to a fabulous guy And I’m happy with that Afraid if he actually moved in I’d find something to pick at But all this happiness Results in no poetry No longer needing the therapy The poems slip away