the choices before me are amorphously creative
and mountainly questionable.

they summon the same uncertainty

I imagine you might encounter before

a blank screen (scream) or canvas; Yourself,

your cells  saying, I don't know how to do this. 

This courses through my nervous system on a
daily, hourly, minutely basis: this feeling of
ignorance and incompetence
the scratch from which I scratch out a picture or

a book I will never finish. 

This is a life I know

not how
to handle

I am beginning to
figure out

I will survive each daily small death

that is life over which I feel

I have so little control and
under which I cower

like a cowardly lioness

but a
lioness nonetheless