Failure's ballroom

I wish I could roar the poem in my lungs, but I can’t.

I can’t do it right now. It is the season for failing.

photo by Georgi Kalaydzhiev

All leaps miss their landing, all kicks miss their target, all seeds died of thirst, all roars fail alchemizing into stanzas.

Fucking hell, failing is exhausting.

Yet,

Not as exhausting as keeping on succeeding for a violent system.

Not as exhausting as the survivalist running away.

Not as exhausting as the looking away to avoid complexity, accountability...

photo by Telma Laurentino

“The system whispers in your ear that it is better to deal with burnout
than with failure”

Stephanie Zajchowski

I wish I could shout a new cartography,

I wish I could roar a poem,

but I can’t, I am busy failing right now.

photo by Liliya Dyulgerov

I’ve entered failure’s ballroom self-invited.

Confusion has her hands wrapped around my throat,

Discomfort smirks at me from the corner, beckoning me closer with a curling finger.

Wouldn’t you like to run away from here?

The floor is not lava, it’s Void.

Remember the perks of running away?

Yes, yes.

And I’ll stay, right here in Failure’s ballroom:

I’ve fallen in love with the cracks on the walls,

I’m mesmerized by the roots growing there.

photo by Telma Laurentino

I’m in awe of the pair of antlers shed at one corner,

and of the eathworms healing the soil,

I think I might dance with them.

Wikicommons

I’m falling in love with the void at my feet,

I’m intrigued by the dreams hidden there.

Toss me about all you want,

I’ve been dying to learn new ways of moving.

photo by Telma Laurentino