I sever my tongue each and
every time
In a useless attempt to quell my
unshakeable arrogance
But at the same time I hold myself
in disbelief:
I don't believe that I
can create anything.
That requires more deft hands
than these.

I am racked with indifference
and yet I am obsessive
If at the time I thought it right,
does that make a difference?
I used to see your qualities
as a pillar, but
now they are as the
broken bones and blood
beneath my feet.