And not a poem.
I’m jumping off here.
I’m not on a journey to improve myself every day.
I’m not aiming for the unattainable ever-better, of self-development’s neat infinity.
I’m a warped impressionist mess
doing the best I can each day
in each moment
I manage to catch myself
as an infant
innocently tasting the poisons
because everything in the world
is so damned inviting.