What to write…? What to write…?
Of legends? Of thoughts? Or of tonight?
Do I analyze something maturely,
Or speak from the heart purely?
Shall I cry or weep with relief,
Or in a blow of deleaf… defeat?
What is the point (Shall I write about that?)?
My efforts feel pointless, and quite often, in fact.
But what does that matter, when the measure is of others, not myself?
For this is not just another trophy for my nonexistent shelf.
It is whole and complete, and perfect, you see,
for it is meant as a place to express for I, myself, and me.