This is my final statement.
Note to self: this is not it.
I am not alone.
I am enough.
The easy way out does not exist.
Behold I stand in my writer’s chair,
holding an invisible dagger against my throat.
The needle in my hay.
This cure for the common cold
has nothing to do with me no more.
“I wish I was strong”, I pray.
I lack control.
Bow and arrow ain’t my sport.
