I struggle to write

The birdsong withered, warbled weakly out

A struggle damning tetchy, wornout me

A slightly, somewhat shabby, songbird

Threw out a garbled note off to the herd

So tired, yet have not still lived fully

Abandoned, so afraid, alive, I again

transgress, moreso am morose as jade

Of tourmaline and turquoise, topaz, made

Of brittle, fragile semi-precious build

I function well and not so well at times

I wish to create and innovate, yet still,

I build myself encumbered, steep, high hills

At last, I shoot my own, my self, my eyes

Not stepping off my plinth, I crystallize.

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