Will I?

My telling clamors should

match the anguished weeks we've had.
I've cuckolded all of
you with concealed replies,
and now this nervous person
I am is hard to understand. But you see, 

I can't decrypt myself,
for I'm a traveler of my own anguish.

A wanderer without a map,
searching for this flair to enduring.
Uninhabited on strewn land, and each rebellious "I'm okay" makes me more lost.
An unknowable terminus to which discovered,

I may unearth a propelling, 

living new frame and fresh essence unsoiled of a imperfect memory.
Disadvantaged and determined;
I'm holding on for that stimulation of spreading anticipation, 

to where I deal with these views in a better way. 

How long can you
bloom on the unknown?


Will I for one, last another day?