Rejection Number 999

So drunk with the refuse
And the stench of
Stubborn imaginings
Its offensive pungence wafts over
and dilutes what remains.
Before cutting this piece out
It is blessed
and the prayers cast out
Into the vast, impossible Nothing.
“Come back whole
Or not at all”
Is unheeded,
And it comes back
Rejection overwhelms it.
This time it carries the weight of “want of connection.”
Any real progress is stopped,
The ache for more bubbling
Beyond my lips,
And I am so full of
What I Should Have Been
There seems not room for
What I Am.
A small piece of me sloughs off
And this rotting nothing
Is here.
I should leave it and be satisfied
But I cannot.
Its stench is foul
And oppressive
But it is mine
And the only dream
I still own,
So I hold my breath
And make room.


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