The ‘p’ word.
I know that look.
I’ve seen that look a million times
Mirrored in a million faces that blur together
To make my patchwork framework
From Preschool to present.
It’s that look that says you’re about to say
A very dirty word.
Dirtier than fuck, shit, hell, damn, or women's liberation.
You’re going to say it.
Even if I beg you not.
Not in front of the children, please.
Po-ten-tial , she says.
Apparently I overbid and stocked up on it to fill up two thousand lifetimes
And lifelines reading with greatness and brilliance in the margins of my bargain buy destiny
Fall short where it really matters,
Making me wonder if the Divine plays pranks on the pretensions.
Perhaps in my next lifetime, if I'm lucky
I'll come back
As a catalyst that’ll lower the activation energy
So the enzymes in my former brain
Can reach maximum capacity
And possibly think in a linear fashion.
But until then, maybe, this is all I am.
Fulfilling my ‘p’ word credentials
Is more terrifying a thought then
Learning to love myself or other people for that matter.
Because it means doing both.
Eh. Happy National Poetry Month! :)