“If writing’s what you love to do, then do it and don’t ever stop doing it. Because the only thing we’ll ever have is what we love.” – Cole K.
Yet I find myself
lost, wondering about my
own merit. Gauging my
success with a flawed metric.
Success should be derived from
accomplishments, feats of independence
not from the opinions of others.
Even still, our humanity requires
comparisons to be made–
from one soul to the next
we encompass each other
as if eclipses of some divine
the pen moves itself across the page
and the writers scrawl sentences
partly their own and partly something else’s
and we sit astonished as our government
carpet bombs, paying cadets to walk in circles,
while we shoulder the weight of debt–
most of us six figures in the hole
and stanzas are strewn about intermittently
vastly unrelated to one another–
for the most part anyways
But our kitchen is the heart
of this culmination of cultures,
beating beneath the rhythms of our music,
noticeable only in the still hours–
a white noise seldom appreciated.