Dear Nietzsche, Convincing Is Exhausting

I don't have much

of a concept of how often 

is too often. Often

to me isn't often

enough. I suppose it's that ol'

empty husk chestnut 

that slippery slope 

of definition, that recognition

of the fatality of words, and how often 

they fall short of actual. 

I admit that it's strange how often

I profess that I love 

them, and that I want

so much of myself

in their existence, and that

I spend so much time convincing

myself that words are truthful, but never 

quite believing it. I don't sleep

well sober. 

...

(k)