I don't know if I’m good enough.
Oh, I can string the words
like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls
along a silken line...
or foment strong, heavy words like
boots that march in bloody mud
or hot, shivering sand.
I can spit them out
when they cloy.
I can bite them back
when
like silent razors
they slice swift and clean.
But every day...
every day when the word count rises
when writing’s the thing and not the play
when words must stick together in factory formation
to add up, to bring forth, to produce...
maybe I’m not good enough for that.
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