There are so many ways
That I'm not—good—enough:
Tall enough, rich enough,
Kind enough, tough enough—
So many ways,
Until I ask
“Enough to what?
For what? What? What?”
To date a model
Who insists “You must be six feet,
Or I don't care about your soul.”
To buy my way into a club or
A house or some friends for
exACTLY as long as the money rolls.
To feel flaccid and edgeless
Under the arms of people who
PreTEND they need me as a crutch.
To look solid and unbending like
Only FOOLS do, as I reach into
A future that no truth has touched.
I've been offered so many ways
To feel less than I hope to be.
To forget what I am—
How I'm living already
A hundred long yards
Past someone
Else's
Dream.
“Does everyone have
all their limbs? …
Will everyone score
enough food this week? …
Is someone gonna cry,
if I quit this life? …
Is someone gonna listen,
if I lean in and speak? …
Will everyone live
through today? …
Will everyone last
through the year? …
Am I the dead fly
on my palm,
Or the crushed plants
in my teeth?”
No, No, Yes, Yes, No—
No, Yes, Yes—
Okay, good enough.
I'm here.
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