There’s scores yet to settle with myself,
for now, there’s another breath,
another heave,
another mouth to feed,
and dusty, they’ll wait patiently,
amongst collections of poetry,
preferably,
on the highest shelf.
How to settle a score with yourself;
give it what it needs,
then demand of it what you need.
I haven’t the time to deal with myself,
and I haven’t found a person,
save for my teacher who is thousands of miles away,
to have enough to offer me,
both in sincerity,
and in complexity,
but in utter ability,
and ironclad conviction,
to show me the miseries,
and realities,
of me.
Alas,
procrastination is a middle man,
a soothing hand,
a woman on demand,
a balm of crux,
if ever there was a dichotomy of reconcile.
It is genderless,
one minute savage,
the next, tender.
How did I arrive,
at loving and hating myself with such fervor?
How did I become stiff,
how did I contour?
The paralysis,
my nemesis,
seems to be all inside of me,
and I won’t let anyone in to see.
W.E.
lonerloaner 