I try to look at my poems
as if they weren't mine,
as if I were reading them for the first time.
I try to look at myself the same way,
but it's almost impossible to pretend
I don't know every little flaw built into me.
But yet,
everyone else seems to have done it.
Maybe they're just better than me,
see there I go again,
picking out what's wrong with me.
But, what is wrong with me?
Why can't I read myself
and be proud
of what I created?
Why can't I read myself
and see what others see?
Others don't dig down so deep.
And the thing is
I've worked so fucking hard on myself,
maybe not in the most positive
uplifting way
but I've worked hard.
I've driven myself to the edge
but I won't stop.
No, not yet.
I'll keep diving
into the sea of impossibility
until I'm numb from the bitter cold,
until I'm not me.
