A Start

It is hard to find, among erratic energy

drained 20 minutes after each pot

of black, caffeinated necessity,

a balance. This she knows, struggles,

blinded by a desire whispered by tabloids,

television, images of perceived perfection.

She was told “You can be anything,” but she heard,

“You have to be everything.”

And she tries, falters, tries again.


In the salivating chaos of enough,

with her soul barred in texts, her pen goes dry

for four months.

Perhaps that is a long time,

she sweats excuses, emptys her palms

for another long time, preparation.

A poets vernacular can die, starved

on mathematical precision,

an education sputtering English proficiency

like a last resort. She believes, simple.


And she portrays

for a while. Till the pressure,

crushing her pharynx, ruptures

bloody murder. A criminal

she steals an hour before

lunch and another during algebra

to engineer a list of syllables detailing

self perpetuated phantoms.

Not a balance,

but a start.




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