scattered. make of it what you will.

a rough poem...a testament of struggle

Pull away these crutches.
Jerk them from beneath me
To see if I fall.
“Up the ante
And see if she’ll live or die.”

It’s a test of my ability.
Fragility is out of the question,
And this is my gauntlet.

I just
Don’t
Think
I’m strong enough.

My aspirations strewn
Like rivers of tiny bones
Across an endless lea of black
Leading only to
The flaming pit of shortcomings.

These people—this place—
They’ve become me.
Without them, have I an identity?

I’ve no choice but to distance myself.
It’s my way of reassuring
That I won’t crumble when things change.
Tell me, stranger—can you blame me?

For if I wait much longer,
My failure (and demise) will be inevitable,
And I’ll never rise to my feet.

During my struggle,
I look to the sky
Only to find
That the moon mocks me.
Alone, it exists.
Of its simplicity and ease
I am jealous.
What a pompous figure,
Yet I find myself entranced
By its suggestive curves.