eighteen hundred

It?s not going to be a matter of wishing to find completion
I?d rather give up now. I can feel the fear
Just as I have melted to its horror in the past
I want to give in and say, yes, I deserve this punishment

But no. I will prevail.
What is that eighteen hundred anyway?
merely the continual flow between you and I,
Screen,
The way that we will flow out
And steal ideas
And pluck the best moments of this life
And the worst shadows that lurch behind us
And compile them into randomness

If there was a beeside collection of poetry
This one wouldn?t likely make the cut.
But at least it would know it has a chance
To be part of something.

If not the larger picture, what is there to strive for?
In life, in literature, in the lull between decisions?