Closure
In the beginning, it wasn’t living, it was
Slugging through schooling, imagining that
I was capable of anything, yet it struck me,
That foreboding, that intimation of a constant effort,
A violent, unrelenting, staggering desire
For nothing but success, for fulfillment;
A blinding blow, an understanding
Of a meaningless endeavor, an education
So that I might have a career so that I
Might support myself, so that I might die;
Despite my unrest, my dissatisfaction
So divinely all-consuming of my head
I took this restlessness and creased it,
Word-origami, into neat little poems and works
Lapsing back into restive writing
Ill-at-ease in my contracting skin,
My twitching nerves, transmitting a message,
Yes—urgent. This must continue. This.
For the rest of my life, so that I might have a career
So that I might support myself, so that I might die;
This is what I must do, and by the end,
Despite my fidgety typing,
I have closure.
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