I write and I think; I got the balance almost almost right
Not just to me, but to others
But it still, lacks, lacks, something
Is this lacking enough to let it go?
Probably not, I’ll always want
(although I’ve learned not to, maybe too much)
Is this it then? The difference between me and you?
What is easy and what is valued, interactionally related
Sometimes I think,
I won’t get there, I have nothing to share, I am not eloquent
I am not capable of realising simultaneously
that, for example, I am (everything)
In the face of such skill, such talent, such ease, such experience, such determination
My own lack of everything necessary
How will I ever distil even a part of this fuzzy fluid whole of world view into a story
and imbue it with life?
(sometimes I feel disgusted with my petty problems, but I have good defences)
and what do I want anyway?
(and yet i am ever hopeful, because youth means so much time left
-ah but not determined, because there is so much time left)