Most of the time i can’t trust myself enough
To know that i know enough about what i’m doing.
Running on the treadmill always trying to keep up
Gnashing teeth. Wringing hands.
What is it i don’t understand?
I keep trying to fill this emptiness, with some goddamn ideal will it ever be enough?
Spiraling cottonwood seeds drift and build up like snow curbside.
Cracked sidewalk shifted and bent atop gnarled ancient tree roots.
When will I know enough to know that all this striving, this ideal of
perfection is what keeps me from peace.