My soul is anything but beautiful, dear.
It is tattered and it is torn.
It is the crumpled up piece of paper that you toss in the fire
To keep yourself warm for another night.

You wish to be the sea?
Or do you wish to be the approaching storm?

But the real question is
Does it matter what you wish?

Our wishes are rarely our reality.
Our wishes are the roses
Of gardens full of weeds
Reality is the pesticide
So haphazardly sprayed.

Storm or Sea

Why me?

There are a million better people
And better writers
And better speakers
And better lovers
And better souls

Than I.