A pome for insecurity.
Cleaning out emails, I found a poem I wrote on one of the days where I was horribly stuck. Worked.
…
Dear self
We are insecure today;
It is ugly.
Brutal grinding fills our stomach.
Not hunger. A mill
Made of wood, grinding itself to sawdust.
Today: every cruel thing I say to me
Is a sick kind of vanity
We’re such a failure it makes us unique.
Keep hold of it, this feeling.
It’s a bucking monster with its spine
A thin sisal rope blistering our fingers, begging,
Don’t let us go,
Don’t let us go,
Don’t let us go.