When it hits paper,
it never fills potential
When it becomes physical as ink
                                       I've failed
It becomes half of what it means to me
after I take these words from the dark
and force them into the light.

If every great worth his name in paper is looking down
                               on one person  
              discovering the path they set to follow
I wonder who was ashamed when they looked down on me
Whether it be Bukowski or Burroughs,
how long did it take for them to turn to one of the Lost and ask,
                           "how's yours doing?"
                       "oh well he's the next me."