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.