What a life it must be
to feign yourself over your writing
pouring everything you ever were
into notebooks and loose leaf pages
and printed computer documents,
only to disappear from this life
never knowing if what you did
was acceptable; worthy of the effort
of ever drawing a breath.
But no complaints here, just an
observation that needed to be stated.
Always the procrastinator, the perfectionist
who can never get her thoughts together
and it shows
like the failing adhesive of a conversation
that never should have started
how unbelievably uncomfortable
an ounce of blank paper seems
as it limits the opportunity
to acquire inspiration into
competent self worth and dignity.
Thoughts sell faster than promiscuity,
never given the proper chance to contemplate.
If forced to contain yourself,
it feels like you’re gradually falling
where every sound is separate
and fresh air is as hysterical as
a temporary relief to depression.