content warning: intense and emotional, talking about feeling overwhelmed

but fuck, a poet’s what i am –
i’ve got the rhythm, the way
of the words, the metaphor and
the twist, the uneven rhyme
and i move and manipulate it
’til it looks and sounds perfect.
and somehow on the other side
it feels a lot like i can’t do this –
can i do this?
drowning and flying can feel identical
and i am doing both, opening my wings
and becoming myself while i
collapse
there’s all too much – it’s all too much
i am screaming into the abyss
and the cruelest irony is that the abyss
does not scream back.
it swallows my voice and my echo and it burns it up,
fuel for its fire,
i am collapsing and so is my foundation.
when i’m gone what will be left?
will my words say anything of me?
will there be anything worthwhile in the words –
these words, my words,
the words that keep me sane, keep me grounded,
that are the way i express myself to the world.
or will i fade into anonymity and nothing
and leave nothing behind?
when all is said and done
you gotta wonder
which is better.