I scratch these stencils to save myself,
Feverishly thinking that I might succeed,
Leaving little gaps from one to the next
Then few. Because If I can make myself
Something, then maybe all this time
Wouldn’t have been a waste. A waste of
A whole good lifetime to pain. A whole
Childhood I’ve dissolved in pointless
Musings, years where I could have become
Something through embrace of happiness.
Maybe it was by choice, or maybe divine
Direction meant this for me. Either way,
I’m here now. Adrift. There’s an ocean
Below me, you can’t see it. And as I
Wrangle with pen and paper afloat this
Lone, stranded plank, I slip a little bit
Deeper. Then, when it’s done, I plaster
The finished sheet to the stick of wood,
Saving it from sinking a little while longer.
So whether these poems are really enough
Or they’re not.
These poems are all I’ve got.

14.XI.24