'If and when I don't write
it's usually because I am afraid of or ashamed of myself.

Wanting to take it all back instead of put forth anything else
Take back the time, the energy,  the hoping
the mistaken sense that I was finally making sense
of a sense of something.

There is not a lot of it in this beautiful world
and the bit there is I don't get a taste of much.
what I have many times savored as such turns out to be poor or lack of common.
Non, sometimes, maybe.

As I pour myself into these forms and spaces and times,
time and time again
I am forced to acknowledge in retrospect
that again I spilled my being haphazardly into another mold.

Dripping over the edges,
drops of myself carelessly spilled all over arbitrary surfaces
in the excitement of trying to get it all into where it belongs
In that one sliver of a moment, a place where I belong.

All that I possess,
all these atoms of stars in my veins and all these old truths,
these explosions of thought and left behind trademarks and scar marked beams of light,
all these cold nights and deep meaningful thoughts,

and trip ups on my own people I sought
and you love me forget me love not forget me nots
I keep myself tethered to paper,
sooner or later the one thing in all of this that could make sense of what I came for.

(i had a lovely time.)