i want to write a letter
but only jagged thoughts,
half formed
rise to the top
they need more dressing,
they need legs
but i can't will the concentration
i'm invigorated by the ideas
but they are naked
not ready for show,
not ready for you
only ideas with soft bellies
exposed hides
ripe for spearing
you'd kill them
dismiss me
taciturn outside
tumult inside
i thrash for an anchor but fall resigned
the prose won't come
this is an autodidact's lament
none of this comes naturally to me
mine is an intellect of intention
born of personality, not nature
so much distress for so long
because I mistook potentialities for realities
so now I sow pitiful grappling hooks
and write shitty poetry
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