Am I Worth It?

Sometimes I think:

Am I worth it?

That praise you give me

On cardboard signs

That taste like the matches

I have struck against my

Tenderly rough fingers;

How can it be?

That you say right-

And it stands tall

In proclamation of

True contradiction. I count

It with white-tipped nails

That I painted for

My own funeral yesterday.

I’ve probably relied

Upon your iron will

(Which bends under paper

Hands) for far too many

Hours, so that my square

Eyes are ready to droop

When they see the traces

Of your melancholic

Flowers’ heads.

Sometimes I think:

Am I worth that?

And then I go and write

Another page of wordless

Lines and broken scribbles,

Another echo

Of a thinking, failing poet.

The End

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