Whatever it was
That once drew words from
A tempest of a mind
Is missing now.

Whatever it was
That animated my withering hands
With dancerly motion
Has taken flight.

What did I have
That sifted through chaos
And spoke with power
Through my juvenile lips.
Power with which my grown voice
Could not conjure except
In a moment’s horror.

Skill generated from the lust of a fire
Stoked by unpredictability,
Fed by creative superiority complex.

I can look back at my adolescence with shame
And disgust.
I can tell myself
How much wiser I am now.
But that lustful child,
That frail beast
Could soak a page in pain
In ways I struggle to mimic.

I was erupting with language,
Bursting at the seams with monologue,
Overcome by soliloquy.
Now I am a mute stage hand
Calling for my line.

Must I once again take the spotlight
For an audience of self judgment
To prove to myself
That I am capable of putting on
A written performance worth reading?

Let this be my audition.
I will move myself to a standing ovation.