One-hundred-twenty
give or take
mostly finished.
Thirty-some-odd
even compiled, formatted,
in a thin, rainbow-bound book.
I can’t push it to the finish line.
POMO is the largest audience
my works may ever see.
I think it’s the fear of failure;
these words,
like my own children,
won’t be as special to others
as they are to me.
Maybe it’s the unique horror
of being truly seen
that anyone could know the deep dark recesses
of my mind— even some stranger on the street?
Or maybe it’s just my ADHD brain
marking a task finished when
it’s 90% complete.
Whatever it is,
fear or atypical neurochemistry,
even though my finger rests
languidly on the enter key
it remains a Sisyphean effort
to press down
let it go
out of my control.