I

I sit and I try. I have nothing else to offer. I am what I am.
I have made decidedly wrong choices, and I live them.
Afraid to to take a chance. I will lose what little pride I have.
What little self-respect I have that defines me.
Excuses overrun, and running to nowhere.
Pride becomes shame, on a one-way road where there is no destination.
Confusing writing, masking the haunting of discovery. Learn a little. Have.
Acrimonious feelings no longer have a grip, than a someway a finger hold is found.
Pushing away, those and myself, easy is the path most taken.
No more one more-but there is always just one more I hope.
Inadequacy reigns, in some form, in some life.

Wait a little longer, push a little more, expose just another minute.
Witt, humor, intelligence, amounts to...well, only time will tell.
Overcoming desire, but not sexually, desire without work. Then maybe sexually.
Whose voice is heard first, whose pride bends a little. Everyone I want.
I am what I am, no glory, no contentedness, not now, not yet, but maybe, you'll see, or you won't.

I make ebullient feelings, but is there more?
A word smith, fancy on himself, there is limitless potential you see.
What if he fails, what if he falls, then disappointment is felt universally. We should of seen.
Its easy to not try, then no one is let down. Perhaps the one whom desired a teacher, perhaps more.

I long to take care of, to provide, I have in my own limited way, but again disappointment, distaste, to foul a flavor to be savored.
I try, perhaps a bit more this time, to see what others see, to not be blinded by illusion, desire, contentedness, live up to what you are. Climb. Fall. Fail. Try again.
I am who I am, but can I be more?
Evasive writing makes sense only to the writer. I am content with elusively.