I hate trying to be something,
trying to say something.
It’s like breaking the petals off all the roses
to try to rebuild a perfect rose.
Like trying to hold water
in your palms or smoke in your mouth.
I am not exceptional.
I can read a book in about six hours.
I know all the words of Hamlet’s soliloquy.
That’s about it.
What I am
is nothing I will ever be famous for.
History favors the brilliant and a surprising amount of rubbish
lurks about the hollow spaces of my brain.
I could dramatize-
invent a few weird ancestors perhaps.
But I don’t think it is worth destroying
my blighted roses to create one that isn’t alive.
Most mornings you will find me
with my coffee at the computer
just tapping out the nonsense of my life.