Introspection

Just how long do I have to suffer
through this pain in my neck
before I decide that I've
been hanging my head for too long?

I'm an unsuccessful success:
The tears of happiness taken out of context,
the euphoria from a guiltily bummed cigarette,
and the drug store, closing time wine, enjoyed because the presented glass can't explain
    that it was filled from a box.

I'm the song that you love but can't, for your life, name,
a good deal bought from the commissioned,
the inexplicable awe and elation from an echo,
and the trepidation from a long awaited text message response.

I am the finger removed from the trigger,
reluctantly replaced,
and removed again.
Still living...

I'm together the fear and optimism of the unknown,
the infatuated "I love you,"
and the redundant cliche.
I am this once empty page.

Block(ed)

This. Empty. Page:
A result of such conceded failure
where success would stoically prove otherwise,
having left no evidence at the seen.

Not everyone deserves to know
the realization of your story.
But everyone has indeed earned the opportunity
to make certain that it has been told.

Knowledge isn't in the knowing,
but in the learning.
Depravity is the everyday, unseen proof
that the story goes yet unwritten.

Justice is realized on the face of precedent,
hence: Injustice.
This, even though ignorance presents as the
byproduct of stories withheld.

Words are the fight,
the struggle,
the proof,
and the answer.

Even when the answer is wrong,
there is no question left
but for those that were aborted
before they have ever realized that they had lived.

Let me,
no, find me,
pray,
be write.