Am I so committed
to being a scribe
in my beat up denim
and faded sweatshirt?
On the fringes,
cleaning the corners
of my story,
wondering if I'll ever
get *****
in the middle
of it,
or remain relegated
to the seams.
I want so much
to be in the textiles
but I get bored
of the pattern.

Rhythm has always been
difficult for me.
Strumming the strings
so meticulously
I nail the meter,
but butcher the groove.
Or catch the groove, and
miss a beat.

I'm land-based,
but am jumping
like a dolphin
to catch
every breath.

A misanthrope,
a mirror,
a life well-lived?