The beauty of “I’m Sure.”

It’s a delicacy, isn’t it? The calm in knowing,

In surrendering to that demanding ache in your bones.

I say it over and over in the mirror just to

Instill some sort of worldly wisdom

That has since been absent.

If to be unsure is to adventure,

Then I have led a long and cultured life, but

I want somebody to look at me

And know more than I,

To answer my questions, I want “I’m sure.”

I want to be cleansed by confidence

In confidence, in secret.

I want silent, unwavering truth to know my name.

If to be unsure is to grimace, Then to be sure is to exhale old, battered breath.

Yes, surely to understand purpose is to create it, And yet I find myself hopelessly

Perplexed.