Making something
from nothing,
is harder than it seems.

We all have our place in this world,
a talent unique to each,
a calling,
a purpose,
a reason to breath...
so maybe that's why my lungs hurt.
they struggle each intake
and nearly give up on the out.

Drums beat slow in the distance,
and so many walk to the beat-
but my uncoordinated feet stumble soddenly.
My fingers are long,
but fumble too quick to play music,
so I cannot create my own beat.

We all reside at the bottom of a pit,
black and coarse,
with the light of the world atop,
gathering at the edges, we start to climb,
but I'm too weak and cannot get very far.
I'm left behind by the others
strong enough to climb to the top,
and no matter how hard I work,
my arms remain weak,
so I sit at the bottom
watching the other weak
gain the strength to climb the walls.

The beautiful,
the bold,
the brave,
the blind,
the clever,
the artistic,
the talented,
the determined,
the kind,
the old,
all kinds of people
in all kinds of color
and sizes
find their own way,
yet mine remains imponderable.

I drag my feet to the sound of silence.
I push through the next breath.
my weak arms barely holding on.

I'm nothing
that simply can't become something.

Take my fetus and go
Through and through the mighty seas,
Cleft of stubborn knocks and the bayonets
Rocking through and through the eves. Whose pirouettes and epilepsy crooked, Asunder, blessing the attenuated biology of Say, a field mouse or the hummingbird. What nuisance it transcends itself into. How It has marred even the plight to lock oneself In that windowless box of time. The Atemporal box featuring those curious amaranthine engravings about its sides, upon its top. Though the blood may not spill from side to side, and while the nellypot may collywaddle, there is an immense sincerity akin, fused afore to the intimacy of an authenticated orphic boketto.