If I tore the pages out of every book on writing
I have ever bought threw them in the air they
would bury me and the
hill would loom as large as my failure.

If I tore all the empty pages from all the empty journals,
I have not soiled with, ink or spoiled their purity,
and threw them in the air they would bury me and
the mountain would have streams of tears at my act of neglect.

If I counted all the hours, by dumping sand from
ten thousand thousand hourglasses, when
I would have done better writing
instead, of doing what ever it was I was doing to disappear,
from my grind in the wrong gear, the pile would be a mountain
chain, to the sun, and I would climb and like Icarus fall, into the ocean
after all with that much sand, I would be at a beach, right?