I remember the shouting. Hearing the screams behind closed doors. What’s the point of closing the door if your fury leaks right through?
This is all too loud.
You don’t owe anyone anything. But then the shouting.
I begin to doubt art the way I doubt myself: never good enough. 
Stop trying to turn the right side gears. Stop looking to King and Lamott and Franco- you won’t find anything.
Cry about it. Fall asleep.
Wake up. Still not ready to give it up.
Does this rhyme sound okay? This metaphor doesn’t make sense. 
Then screaming.
Your mind doesn’t work the way Wes Anderson’s does. Your characters don’t jump off the page nearly as well as Salinger's. 
Not good enough. Incompetent. Shouting. Sleep.
I’m an addict with a pen trying
to make sense of all of this.
Trying to make it work.
But between the shouting and
Closed doors and
(Make it stop)
It’s hard to find clarity.
To feel good enough.


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