the shepherd's sword

i'm sorry for the mess

i am sorry for the mess i've made.

anger is an ugly sound,
an ugly texture;
numb-numb-pound!
it is like oil:
it coats my hands.
why give a girl
such weighted hands?
capable of too much.

these hand-me-down dreams
are piling up
outside the door
that i refuse
to open anymore.
but the ones inside are just as bad.
drying in the flower pot,
my creations left to rot.
i have contributed nothing.

the combination of these two things-
these types of dreams-
it's smothering.
and i do not even value myself enough to pace.

i sit.

i sit and stare
and wish to go
i know not where
and this shows
how middling my existence will be
and i apologize.

i'm sorry for the mess i've made.

all of these starving aspirations
cluttering up the place.
and yet, when relatives enter
they only see the clothes in the floor.

i'm sorry for the mess i've made.
truly, i am.