C h a z z W r i t e s . c o m

I will never be enough.

I will never be perfect.

I will never make enough money.

I will never have enough toys.

I will never be a best-selling author.

I will always be found wanting.

I will always want more respect.

I will never have enough to satisfy my father.

I will never be enough to satisfy my mother.

I will always be up on this cross.

I will always be down in this hole.

I will always be hungry.

I will always be empty.

Every unkind word buries me.

Every thoughtless comment drowns me.

Every harsh remark casually dropped from your stupid mouth

pierces my heart.

I am sadness.

I am rage.

My loser tattoo is indelible.

You will never see me as more than this.

Worse, I will never see me as more than this.

And I will never be happier.

Any happiness I do manage to scratch up won’t last longer

than the next chocolate chip cookie

fresh from the oven

but cooling fast.

Then the next ugly thought kills me again

and again

and again

forever.

So there is a hell after all.

You know what’s best about youth?

It isn’t the vitality, though that’s good.

It isn’t zero responsibility, though that was awesome.

It’s the road that stretches out before you

and you can’t see beyond the horizon.

You could be anything

(even the successful writer you dream you could be.)

But the best thing about youth is when you look

in a girl’s eyes and she sees the man you wish you were

and,

best of all,

you haven’t fucked up yet.

Filed under: Poetry, poetry, youth