I used to tell a good story.
Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.
Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.
I was never good with the arts and crafts.
I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.
Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.
But I left dignity long ago.
I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.
The last time I checked, he was cast aside.
There is so much more that I will never admit.
This is going to be a good year.
In the presence of doers,
I aspire to die.