I could sit and stare,
And bide my time;
Thoughts rip and tear,
And try to rhyme.

Somehow it seems so strange
That though we poets,
Filled with strands of gold or gray,
Can rarely find a way to say
What's truly on our minds;
We're too caught up in the blinds.

Perfection is a savage curse,
But self-rejection's even worse.

Maybe it's okay to be afraid;
You can't pick and choose what to feel;
Know your soul's not being weighed, so
Put pen to page and just be real.

Look back - my sight was black and white,
A decidedly dividing definition;
“Surely now I see what’s right” –
What a presumptuous premonition.

Fast forward a few:
“All scenes shall shatter.”
Nihilism, not new; just
Cognitive chatter.

Even Nothing now ends
in a burst of ferocious flame;
The love that she sends
renders the Big Bang tame.

You ask what I believe:
As though it’s set in stone;
As though there’s some reprieve;
As though I’ve fully grown.