I will not talk about my losses,
where I neither gave up nor tossed
in the towel,
and still did
not come out
a winner, the winner.

Maybe I am not built to compete, I have no grit
no edge to my way,
maybe life is fun,
and we are to just play?

Maybe when you feel sorry for your self, you lose,
your edges now, are broken bits,
that makes deep cuts into your pysche,
a vivisection of the visceral.

Maybe thoughts like this are best bottled up and
tossed in an ocean made up of the tears
that rain down and pour like a wash
filled with
every dream, every goal, every first step of last resort,
I ever had that never left
the space. the gray space above my ears, which heard
my cry and my eyes which see but have no handles to turn off
the faucets that they have become, leaking saline,
while I pretend to understand Einstein.

I write and that makes me a writer and a winner,
what pray tell, are you a winner at...?

I am listening.


©DWE112013