These Works of Love

You know that deep sadness
that sits like a perpetual swallow
in your throat?
 A mucus that coats your 
stomach lining, occassionally
surprising you with an outburst
of vomit?
  You know how you suppress it
under the pressure of intake while
holding in your breath?
    You know how your extremities tingle
and sometimes go numb in spots like an
awkward giraffe?

My Mom says I have a way with words
--she doesn't read much but mine suck her
right in
   She gets a stern look on her face that tells me
she really means for me to listen when she says
that I should write
      And so I write, for her...
and I make other art often for a "him" or a "she"
and I feel deeply, well, that's just for me

I create so much
people say it exhausts them just to watch

To me, it's like this:
A whirlwind of thought and hands, 
an unstoppable explosion of heart,
an in-containable a-bomb of needs,
and at the end of the day, Me:
Standing on this mountain of creative trash 
asking, "Is this enough?"

Is it enough for me to be okay?
For me to be worthy?
For you to love me?
Is it enough yet?

It's never enough

The lack of "enough"
and high probability,
after all these years of research,
that "enough" cannot be reached through
these means, does not stop or even slow me

In truth, it's a question I ask inward
as much as out
and sometimes, when asked inward,
"enough" is answered yes,
through tears of disappointment
and timid pride, enough,
and sometimes with an enthusiastic posturing,
enough!

I know better,
but this old habit remains,
that I can earn your love through
actions--when, in truth, those who are worthy
of my love already love me, 
and those who are not, who cannot, who will not,
will never know me as I am, no matter how 
active or patient or persistent 
I am at making all these little piles,
these works of love