I am sick of myself and the
stuttered renditions of life
that I attempt to create.
I have been nothing but
textbook skimmings
and a few mentally
sharpened words.
This life is no longer
absorbed in a night.
This life is no longer a heap of
scattered dreams
punctuated with the
well-wishings of those who
care with one eye
and despise with the other.
I am not your Eucharist.
I am not a list of places
I have never been.
I am not summarized by the
songs I cannot play.
My fingers are strong but
misdirected.
Would being able to play the
music in my head make me a
different person?
I will never get any higher
because I
can't
hold
on
long enough to pull myself up.
This isn't your fault.
It's mine.
