You don’t give-up
All in one chunk
You give-up in drips
First, you give-up on a word
Then on the line
Then on the poem
By now, you are drowning
In a sea of aborted words
Who are angry at you
For not letting them exist
They push your head under
A pile of their fetuses
At the last second
You have a beginning line
Which turns out to be your last
It rises to the surface
And appears to the world
as a stupid bubble