The Skill of Speaking

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Everything spins in my head
Everything I am
Vicious angry swirls

Nothing staying long enough
To be cataloged
To be counted
Fleeting moments of delirious happiness
Worlds I should be in
Things I should create
But my hands trembles as I reach

Dreams of mine
I cannot claim

My life’s work just to see clearly
But they are fog and greyest smoke
Deadly nightshade burning behind the irises of my eyes
As though inside is the place I cannot look
Though I’ve spent my days locked in my own head

Oh bury me with all these sad sad thoughts
The embarrassment
The shame of the inability to excel at connectivity
When a single cohesive vision is all you’ve ever sought
To have given up all else
Because this is what you wanted
While perfectly aware
Nothing you’ve started has ever finished

Fearing the failure of the neverending

Facing the mockery of being good at something that grates in your teeth

Facing the mockery that you’re not as good as your eyes told you

To see your thoughts on paper
To see distillation carved in papyrus grain
To cringe when read aloud
And blush when shared

And ignored when weeping

To mock any other who attempts the same but succeeds, and with less ability
Who share unskilled but offer heart
Fearing that you are the opposition

Merely delusioned to all you’ve been
Disillusioned with all you’ve done

Washed up and down the drain
The concern with completion fading with the dawn as new interests flash before your eyes
The lifespan of dust
Eternal
But only when already dead

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