you just want
to slam
your trembling fists into splintering wood,
and bleed ink,
and bleed a masterpiece.

you just want
to wipe
your sorry arm across the angry clutter
of unresolved promises
hoarding psychic energy on your desk.

you just want
to stare
with bitter, blank hate,
as papers flutter downward
into a scattered heap
on the floor,
but

most of the time, you just need
to breathe, and
to gnaw

the clock out from your skull, and
the words out from your knotted thoughts,
and the truth out from your indolent hands,
but

most of the time, you don't.

most of the time, you just want to
scream and
scream and
scream:

“I am not good enough.”