So many of my own sentences that I let burst forth cause either immediate fear or narcissistic fawning and usually are self-defeating because I let too many paradoxes and conundrums dance their silly supernova ways through my soul and off my tongue.
I erase more than I keep.
See I haven’t done more right than wrong and that's been the case for far too long.
Or at least it feels that way.
So black and white quickly blur, boundaries lower and I speak from the edge of an abyss that has pulled me near with a low death chant.
The swirling pure light rays that still pursue, that still push and conquer their ways into such moments at this ledge are often quickly questioned or combatted or diminished, in my psyche, leaving me more full of self loathing than before.
I'm left burdened by the fear that I'll never be able to hold anything precious for long.
I don't even finish some of my boldest works; some just hang at the precipice full of an honest fear that full, uninterrupted surrender is but a profound poetic ideal unreachable but more impressive than all else, at least this side of glory.