I Am

I am a living being with no life 

breathing, but not alive.

A possibility, riddled with impossibility.

An artist with no artwork,

a poet with no voice,

an actor with no words.

I am work unfinished,

a presence unclaimed.

I exist

but barely.

I reach 

but nothing reaches back.

I feel like I have much to give,

but nothing sits in my hand.

I reach for the light,

but there is no light to have had.

I want to rest 

but resting is all I’ve done.

So why am I tired?

Tired of a race I haven’t run,

a fight I haven’t fought,

a life I’m afraid to live.

Rejection is inevitable 

and still, it cripples me.

They say knowledge disarms fear,

but the more I know,

the more I fear.

The thought is debilitating,

the idea — insufferable.

I am a poor being,

stuck in my head,

haunted by a vision

of what the Almighty expects of me.

And every time I get up —

I fail.

Perhaps this is it.

Perhaps this is where the journey ends.

But how could that be?

My story hasn’t begun.

When does it begin?

Perhaps there is no true beginning to life.

Life goes on,

life moves on —

no start, no end,

just an infinite cycle.

And maybe, just maybe,

my story only ends

when no one is left to remember me.

When those who knew me

are gone and dead.

But that isn’t the case 

not yet.

So I live.

The question is,

what the hell am I living for?