It's so hard to exist on guilty conscious,

with knobby, knocking knees,

I chase after elegance,

And ignore candidness.

To write is to gut oneself,

to script in blood,

to subject the belly of the craft,

to the belly of your soul.

Such artistry,

it bewitches me.

Yet, there is no jazz in my tune,

there is no melody in my rhyme,

and certainly no grace,

no element to anchor.

Through and through,

I am a lousy poet.

I am the frontman of the chorus in my mind,

and yet the turbulence inward,

I cannot communicate,

in a way that does not feel chalky.

It grates on me,

claims it's need to be good,

and that performist, senseless need,

is what renders my disability.

To love is to write,

To write is to pour,

And to hide is cowardice.

I am both a coward and a lover,

and that wrestles in my art.