The outlines blurred
gut-wrenching
insufficient
like tearing them out
pulling so hard
on the same strip of fabric
It just won't tear
And the salt and the tears
and the blur
And I can't do it. I just can't.
But I want to.
And I try and try
but it's just not getting there.
Snot.

Reaching back, looking back.
It's not regret; it's
something, longing
wondering
why all those years won't blur
like the words on the page in front of me
And I'm so self-centered
And I'm so stuck
But I want to do.
I want to live.

But how?

Forget that. This is now.
Heidegger beckons.
Deep breaths.
Wipe away the tears.
Take off these ******* pajamas.
Stop holding back.
Do what I know
needs to be done.
Listen to that song a 3rd time.
But actually listen this time.
'You'll succeed at last.'
Paint your eyes & pick out clothes.
Just like you always have.
Know they don't care.
But write anyway.
Know it could all be in vain.
But do it anyway.
Wonder if you'll be able to read this
once I've finished
Is this a poem?
I can't see ****.
I know I don't know.
end of the page
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