when i begin to free-wheel
and shudder with contempt
i take comfort in the thought
that we are mostly born to fail.
honey-slow days are steeped in loss,
marinated in missed opportunities
sweetly whistling tunes that pipe
"all is well because all will be, regardless."
my life might have no payoff
to the meandering silk i weave
and death could prove a hostel,
relief from what i was born to carry.
effort always looks to me
like a lack of priorities
while i jealously guard potential
and covet their delusions.
i'm a coward gently born
to soft beds and microchips
and indulgence of my worst self
when i am too afraid to move.
i am worried i am a narcissist
for wanting to keep breathing
soon picnics and parties become noble acts
proof of love through self-flagellation.
i've heard that poets see farther
but i don't even know metric units
so how can i tell anyone how far ahead
the beginning begins and the end ends?