Auto. Motif. Poem by James Daniel Gabriel

I want to drip,
before I drop,
into a cup well on it's way to empty.
I rise to the top of the Pot.

My poetic sense of resillience has nothing to do
with the outcome of things,
the horizons do not become lush with chance and ease,
as I go about the path and make my shortcuts.

My mothers voice can still break me over the telephone...

Everything about me says champion,
nothing around me reflects any victory.

As for this I am among the best.
Audiences by the scores encircle me and I begin to play.
This is the well from whence my confidence came,
while I draw circles on the pail as white as a 'spirit' would be-
if only I had more white chalk.

This blue little soul is me,
there is the hole in the bucket.

Drip,
Drop,
Done.

Better drunk than wasted.
I guess!
(That much I can assure you of.)