Smoke

I think I'm trying to write myself through something
Or out of something. These poems are purely
Failed methods of escape.
How do I know they've failed?
Because I am still here.
I am not out.
I am not through.

One day I will write something and I will
Dematerialize completely.
I will fold up in the back of the drawer,
Forgotten by me
Forgotten by everyone.

Lost in the dirty laundry
Or gone up in a plume of smoke.