At 12 it could have been six hours

but two good conversations and now it’s 2,

so four.

Another day of not enough sleep

Another night of “I’m awake now.”

Another try at typing words

to say something I can’t.

Yet.

Reading someone who says it

so much better that I (don’t) want to try.

That’s a writer!

People read them.

more.

And I’m a, I’m a, I’m a,

I’m a

Can a scream say it better

or a curse I can’t stop

repeating?

Do any measures count

how many times I haven’t…?

Given up.  Gone to bed and

fallen asleep. Broken the dishes.

Every one.

Surrendered to demons whose voice sounds

just like mine.

“None of this matters, it’s useless,

pathetic, you joke,

failure.

If you would just quit

the world would thank you.  Honestly.”

And every affirmation

disappears by 2:30

A.M.

Swallowed in the roar of

futility and silence.

What if I never…?

Is the trying enough?

A writer.

You’re joking me, right?

No. I don’t think I am.