It really is terribly hard to know what is the right thing to do, what might be the right way to go
Above all else I can see that my poetry –  a long line – is in fact there for me to come see whenever I might need to feel fine again
Many mights there
If only I could manage somehow to match the poetry for class, build an equally excellent backbone that won’t crumble at the first sign of disaster
Just me and my pen, what so often seems to be the case
Does the whole process soften my woes, I honestly can’t say, just don’t seem to know
If it all has been a waste, then I can’t afford to think so
Like I say, either way I have to carry on with the sincerest of flows, no crutches anymore
Open that goddamn door
You see, there’s just one thing, and it’s seismic, I fear, but I have OCD
A rather perturbing and relentless beast that won’t seem to let me be, my frazzled brain always looking for something, someone to blame
And right this minute, I’m afraid, all fingers point towards me