Scraps.

Like little paper scraps
I tear away.
Drop to the floor like snow - wish there was more truth to my words
Pasting and gluing, avant-garde art projects
I can't take credit for.
Be better. Be more.
I shape myself with pieces of hope.
Held together by determination. Sliced apart.
Cut down.
My own work - I don't deserve the credit.
I don't deserve to know myself.
This empty blank expanse, like a fresh notebook page...
leaves me lost. This feeling?
I can't describe it.
Like the ink of a marker slowly running dry,
I've come to a stop.
Wondering.

What. Now.