When things crush me from the inside, bursting to get out,
It is as though I am the cocoon, that something else lives within. It
Struggles, twists and kicks its way free,
Free of me, of all the rules I have set down for my own existence, all the things I must not think or say or do. This
New Thing comes through my mouth and cunt and nostrils, slips my fingers on
Like gloves, and taps out words on my keyboard.
I am afraid, because I am so comfortable in my discomfort, my squalid surroundings, my
Dark, dingy, cramped existence, the
Artist’s garret of my mind, where I tell myself how hard it is to get ahead and
Forgive myself for failure, failure
That is comfortable and easy and doesn’t ask me to work too hard, or feel too much, or take too
Well, I tried. I tried.
But I did not try. I did not try. I gave a half-
Hearted little effort, a token gesture that
But I could say I tried. I just wasn’t good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough, talented, disciplined, prepared enough to
Succeed. To dazzle.
But I am. Only I don’t.
Because no one else has shown me the way to succeed, to be happy, to accomplish great things. so
I must hack this path out of the underbrush all by
Instead I wrap myself in this cloak of failure, comfort myself with my inadequacies, and rock myself to