I never finish things,
it is one thing that I worry about
about myself - the not finishing
the always fixing the anxiety cycles
came later but the principle of the thing
was the fact now that creatively it feels
like I never find the period
today sitting on the toilet
I offered myself a moment of compassion
is life not in itself the greatest creative act
with an ever prolonged
completion
maybe it is just because I have been on instagram
reading poems by someone I went to college with
and feeling jealous that she is becoming somebody and
I sat on a step last night and cried to my mother after I could not
muster up the courage to ask a set hand on a film set how he had gotten
his job, begging the universe for someone to give me a
chance and I was just like the cocaine addicted roommate
my friend told me about who doubted his own potential
and cursed the success of his friends. except I did not curse the success
of my friends just of the friends of my friends who were never
that nice to me at parties. and now I sit here
writing a poem in the style of theirs which I have never quite liked
for its confessional nature that shoves life's edges at you in your face
edgy in its ugliness and I make it about me even though I know it is not about me
and yet the only way to live life is to think it is about you
and I am an artist and I want to make things and I am a poet and I want meaning
and I am a musician and I want to say things without words and I am human
and I want to be held and to be told I am understood
