just when the bitter
is not on the edges
of my spoiled food,

but my repast totaled and complete,

just when the heartache of living
infects the legs the head even
the fingertips I abuse leaking all I fear here

when composing,

just when I read another 1000 daily new tryings to say me bad sad utilizing
moon June eyes scarred scraps of love and pity-me broken rants,
cants of can't,
trending my deep desired purpose of delighting and inspiring
you into the thunderous waterfall of never ending poetic oblivion,

and I wonder what the hell am I doing here
(spending countless hours, draining personal  batteries)

then you tell me that some words,
words they say I wrote,
apple-core me
pushing momentarily out/aside the fear, the embattled hubris,
the anguish, the desperate wishes, you tell me just this:

"This filled a need I had no name for"

I am weeping only, ashamed and unashamed,
redeemed, you used my coupon, and spent it
on redeeming me
in a manner unknown and here I am composing once more having sworn I am done here,
only now to decompose myself in privy chambers for my dearest ones,
for too many words come to me, telling me of their hurting,
used up by overuse, crusted cliches,
drowning in images that no longer reflect in any mirror,

and you tell me that just what I felt,
wrote down precisely that,
one must  always
ask for more than you can give,
my communication into your sensations fulfilled a need,
some thing that

"filled a need I had no name for"

and it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
to put away my deckling paper, put the pencil down,
lock up that old sewing box, pink and white striped, where the pained and joyous monthly storage fee needs payment due,
where are kept yellowed poem-papers that they won't hesitate to throw out when cleaning out my last effects,
needs shutting down,
the last episode of this personal reality show,
"breaking __" (fill in the blanks with un blanched original sounds)

what more needs doing,
I inquire of my narcissism,
capstone, the keystone brick preserved,
what more could ever be achieved
having tendering myself raw and distinct, fine and finished,

there is no more I could ever write, or need to,
and I am contented in a way that my I ego
happily announces it's surrender and the end is not lacking in finality,
for this is the way to go out,

for you have given me something
weeping only, ashamed and unashamed, at last,
at the longingest at last,
filling a need I think knew existed and now no longer,
for who cannot say I am not whole,
holy satisfied after seeing this gift,
for you have all gifted me something I dare not,
even, did not know to how ask for,
nor know that I could ever give,
out loud and conscious,
and now need never ask for again,
but give    
again and again
and again