Pure Clash
In the midst of grace, hope, and fear
I hang myself on one and clipped to it
And hope seems the best one to veer
But hope can't be fruitful arid grace even when fear had quit
I relent on grace to ace my pace
Now I find myself traveling in my desire's grace
I lost to my ought self trying to be me
I wasn't sure if I will ever be
Until I rest not on all works forlorn
Poetry becomes an attribute of me inborn
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