I ask myself why I came.
I am bombarded:
answers – a tangle of fire and shame.
I ask myself why I came.
I hold myself through wounded walkways of regret.
I cling to old pieces of paper, on tattered pieces of memories,
and I grip them
and I yell, “One day!”
to no one.
I ask myself why I came.
I rattle off a list of exceptional behaviors,
remarkable achievements,
and noteworthy causes.
I ask myself why I came,
and none of those are it.
I ask myself why I came
and I shudder and sigh,
avoid being looked in the eyes,
avoid looking into my eye,
“I can’t say.”
I lie.
I ask myself why I came,
and the question won’t go away,
and the days pile up in a blaze,
and my words crowd into my ears
and out of my hands,
and all over my fears.
I ask myself why I came…
Touche.