We are gathered here today for  the part of me who repeats over and over “not good enough”
Today is the day I burn the part that thinks it’s only worth doing if it’s perfect
It’s only worth saying if it gets praise it’s only worth living if it’s achieving
Today is the day this version of me dies

And isn’t it beautiful
Isn’t it heartbreaking
The seeds I grew inside myself, some of them rotten
What a gift
what a tragedy

Today is the funeral.
Today I rise.

Sometimes the words
Just don’t come
No matter what
There’s no inspiration
Nothing strikes me
Nothing is there
Just a blank page
It’s like a winter white out
It’s painful
The desire is there
The want to
But nothing comes
It’s frustrating
Blank Out

Chicanery, mendacity, an enigmatic virtue
It's in my nature, azure allure like verdure
Pseudo-sagacity, arid and automatic
Sybaritic audacity, be pragmatic
Gimme some clemency, I blame the sediment
It's evident there's something in the medicine not heaven-sent
I'm not eloquent, verbal carcinogenic
Contours contort and distort like hallucinogenic

Whispers in the wind
Carry what you don’t dare to say.
On ‘tempesty’ days,
That wind brushes past striped curtains,
A draft, it lands in my home.  
It carries a guise of unwelcome
But really,
Really, it invites me to listen.
Words are swallowed by this stubborn air.
But what it wants to be known is known.
I know.

All difficulties have been resolved, and life has returned to its natural state of green... yeah, I was just reading the last sentence of a borrowed novel.