my voice

My voice -

I look for her in everything.

Films, prose, poems, 

epigraphs

things I dub beautiful and worthy

of being whole

of being created things.

My voice 

I know she's out there, 

somewhere.

So long as she keeps asking

If it sounds right 

this line 

If it makes you feeling something 

this word

If it is as good as the best you can imagine

Or worse 

if it's not 

at all - 

lacking discipline I

ruminate, create, ruminate, create 

What is it to be unique?

It all feels somewhat fake 

As long as there have been people 

there have been careers, hobbies, even lovers

all shared 

under the care of passion

Tell me one thing that is just mine

And don't say fingerprint

ruminate, create, ruminate, create, ruminate, create

it's incredible, the state

of a person who insists on drowning 

frowning

while encircled 

by one million lifejackets

bouncing, little yellow saviors 

their splashes yelling to ears filled with years 

of self-doubt, dissonance buildup

Does this make sense? 

Is not the right question

arms failing 

words falling

long or short

mundane or bespoke

There's nothing to want anymore

the letters, the metaphors

all mine, all out of me 

this little body

Now she can breathe.