I am suspiciously susceptible to
my supposed suspicions.
I rather have an answer
because I fear being in a
perpetual state of never doing anything.
Always doing nothing.
I want answers, even when
they are wrong, because they
give me momentum.
Is it forward like I assume,
or upside down like a helicopter
crash landing into the Atlantic
ocean, swirling, swirling, swirling--
until I lose all perception
of which way my air bubbles
are floating?
YOU ARE READING
TO FAIL SO FLAWLESSLY
PoetryEDITS IN PROGRESS: A prose-poetry chapbook exploring themes of insecurity, doubt, lost fabrics, and what it means to fail so flawlessly.
