Stuffed in my pocket, crumpled but not forgotten, tear sodden, the fist-clenched-tight paper balls meant for trashcans, that I just can’t work up the courage to throw away. Those rough drafts aren’t always mistakes. They're my best friend's drawing, My sloppy handwritten poem, They're my notes for that petty test, and I must grip them in my fist, like battle armor. my weaponry to fight attachment and instability, carefully inhibited frailty. I've spent all my life gathering examples of my humanity, building walls of vanity to cover the insanity, come at me, take a stab at me, test these daimond walls, I swear I can't get free. you may laugh at me. But take a hold on my bent back, hear my swolen muscels crack, clenched knots tieing the sails to my ship, weathering thunder claps, like tongues screaming to Lucifer. And they're not getting any looser, My steps are no smoother, I'm struggling toward the future, where letting go, doesn't seem to be an option.