these thoughts in my head–

why won’t they come out?

why are sentences just

so difficult to form, even with the

newfound “ease” of the internet

instead of providing simplicity

it slows the diffusion of thoughts

onto pure paper or tainted technology

try, try again, they say–

what do you think i’ve been doing?

is it your impression that i’ve

spent the last few months sitting

in a pile of tossed clothing and

filth, channeling no energy into

this craft of surprising difficulty

but profound beauty?

i’ve tried to write about the beauty my eyes see

but it feels wrong.

it’s as though i’m wandering around

an abandoned shopping mall in

an eighteenth-century style ballgown

the very essence of beauty but a true

oddity in today’s society

i am a shattered vase, put together again with glue

and a piece is missing and that

piece is my voice, my writing

if i reveal that hidden shatter of me it

scares the innermost parts of my mind that

you won’t enjoy the finished vase

you haven’t used the vase yet because it

wasn’t finished, but once it’s finished,

what if you toss it to the side?

what if you shatter me further–

beyond recognition and destroyed by the words of others?

i’ve sat here, unfinished

for so long that you’ve forgotten

that i am still in progress

but we are all a masterpiece waiting to be finished

some of us are canvases awaiting a painter

a silence in noise waiting to be filled

with blood-pumping music

of violins, pianos, and cellos

a lump of clay hoping to be molded

and i am sitting, waiting, hoping

for a sliver of recognition, but

it helps to remember that completion is key

and i must finalize my masterpiece first

in the process, maybe i will learn

what it means to endure blood, sweat, tears

how to show you an unfinished product but

where to listen to my ideas first and

when to trust my instincts and

why they help to formulate intricacy

but i can–

i will invite you to view me–

my work­–

and stand proud as your eyes

wander the pages and formulate

criticism and critiques,

and i know you want to help but

it’s like you are trying to shatter my vase

all over again

yet this time i will be indestructible

and will take bullet after bullet

with confidence, knowing

i cannot be bruised or burdened with

your words as my words have already

damaged me beyond repair

my wounds cannot be healed but i

return to the front lines, day after day

to take your words in stride

and use them not as a weapon but

as a tool, as a device to facilitate improvement

and to foster creativity

i’ll show you my soul if­–

without conditions.

i’ll show you my soul, unabridged

with no expectations

i will trust these instincts,

my intuition that has brought me thus far

and will lead me into whatever waits ahead,

whether lovely or terrifying

i am ready now