Days

the days creep, and it is no small matter to let them go.
minute by minute—hour by hour. I sit
making use of my arms and legs.

it is hardly possible to quiet the dissonant voices within—
"Can I do this?"
"Will I succeed?"
the doubts invade my mind again;

the scattered sounds of television disquiet inner persons.
the newscasters and commentators are like
neural ticks that a sane mind escapes each second.

the square, neat pattern of the blanket across my feet,
if it could talk, would say to me, "Do Something!"

pages upon pages of carefully crafted words
lie in front of me to suggest:
I do not feel as though I am worthy, at all.

a thesaurus, a dictionary—these things tell us,
in digestible form, what it is our words betray
when they are said to have meaning.

the scrawling nature of handwriting;
the burning words on the page.