I will not be great—
At most,
Pretty **** good at confessional;
The clunky words sticking to
My once-agile fingertips
Make hardly conspicuous sounds.
Even if they resonate within me,
The goosebump ecstasia washes over
In waves of unsure relief.
I feel detained by dreams of fame
That sour my sweetest songs—
I now rechant alone.