The future is cloudy from where I stand,

and I just need to see a gleam of truth,
I just need to hold a fistful of sand
that won't turn to glass as I leave my youth:
I have lost all contact with my talents,
it appears, though I know I reflect them,
but I lack a sense of how to balance
my need for expression with directives:
This is a crude poem – analysis
of self as prosaic as possible;
I am not kidding when I mention this –
I maybe think I am the obstacle:
Of course, a bloody hand or bloody heart
spills over into rhymes, imperfect art.
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