The truth of it pools in my mouth,
soft wet pulp: I am not enough.
It is a lacking well-worn, kneaded
into folds of failing flesh.
Talent skipped a note in me, played
the makings of a masterpiece off-key.
Delusions of grandeur, diluted over time,
misshapen by rhyme—I am a wreck—
I am inferior—I am failure—failure—
faithless—burn these walls to the ground.

Here, scrawled in the ashes of who
I might have been—could have been—
was never going to be, goddamn it—

I am not enough. We sit shiva for those
we’ve lost. So say a prayer and sit for me.