confession

 everybody seems

to be holding it together

pretty well.

not me. no, not me.

i crumble

a little bit daily

under the dream.

and running out of glues

to try

to piece it all together.

i choose two things.

only two. good things:

artist. lover.

impossible to be.

a life's work.

it is a journey,

certainly,

and failure, my faithful companion.

no, i've got no beef

 with old buddy failure,

what really does me in is

pride.

jabbing and stabbing

with icy shards and damn it

it knows

exactly the most excruciating hidden place

to strike

because

evidently

i am the only one

who can't keep it together

or at least the only one foolish enough

to strip myself 

of the comforting armor

and bare all

for the world to see.

so i confess:

i want. i expect. i demand.

more. more. more.

i laugh in the face of the impossible.

i push away those i love.

i believe in a god i do not know.

i wrestle surrender to the ground.

i abuse language.

i treat myself with contempt.

i stubbornly ... everything.

i allow time to waste me.

i fake art.

i can not do it alone.

for lent, i gave up hope.

(or perhaps it gave me up,

for the first time in history)

i am out of control.

for my sins of comission

for my crimes of omission

i feel i deserve to disappear.

but that, of course,

would be too kind a punishment.

the verdict is in:

life in prison

of a person i do not want to be.

...