My Never Ending, Going Somewhere, Short Story Book

If these were the last words I ever wrote

I’d just like to say I’m proud

I was twisted, mangled dirty

Now I know a bit more, about pointing toward the sun

I’m not nearly grown yet; I look down at dirt

A ring in my side, is all I will say about that part

Of this story

Pain is not bad, if you learn finally


My mom said I looked like I had “Lost weight,”

For the first time my immediate reaction wasn’t, “Thanks.”

It took 365 days in gut wrenching ways, but I did it


I used to write five chapters of a book

They never had a plot

I never knew where the middle is

Or why we had to have an end

I like fragments

I like bursts of energy, brilliance

I like not knowing where it’s going

Or how to tie it back again


And this is exactly how I began

Not knowing a single thing

I grew up thinking I was absolutely nuts

It turns out, I am

In the morning, I write the first line on a new page

In my never ending, going somewhere, short story book

If these were the last words I ever wrote

I’d say this 

This poem is about: 


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