twenty three.

if i were a bit wiser, a lot braver,
what kind of future am i estranged of?

would i even choose to admit
that art was a choice i long to commit?

are there a myriad of possibilities
where i can pull cards without losing grip of control?

would i even dare to wrestle with words
and be a lot meaner than before?

among these ifs,
was there an instance
that i conveyed directly my intentions
spilled out a list of fears
and was true enough to admit them, at all?

— image from Sherry / via pinterest