to save herself

i whip off poems
faster than
lunch
laundry
lust

and yet i still
feel as though i
owe myself
more

or owe my poems
more of myself

whichever

the point is
i need more discipline
commitment
practice

toward this craft
of mine, less w(h)ine
to make it useful
for me

beautiful for others

perhaps the
pursuit
of publication
is a purpose worthwhile

denial...

that any of this is real
yet i heal each moment
with words that
craft themselves

as band-aids
or hugs

i give myself
or bragging banners

i wave
to flaunt a life

false and fulfulling
and in flux

always changing
day to day

it is mine for the
molding

holding this here
near is the kind
of possession
worth owning

the rest
just falls away...