I have poetic license but I seem to be locked out of my poetic car.
The doors seem to be rusted shut.
The keys stuck in the ignition not turning either way.
My mind is full of sparks and lightning and fireworks.
But I look down at myself and I’m just flesh and bone.
I want to rewrite myself but I don’t know how.
I have poetic license but I am locked out of my poetic car.
The doors are rusted shut.
Maybe I can squeeze in through the windows,
(They are rusted open).
Now I am in a rusty car and I have dusty joints.
It is not pixie dust or star dust, or anything magical.
It is not a side-effect of exploding cosmos,
(Although I sometimes want myself to be).
It is regular dust.
Ground down dirt and rock.
Or maybe flesh and bone.
But then again isn’t a disintegrating human an exploding cosmo?
Am I not a disintegrating human?
Why is it easier to see the significance of other people’s lives than your own?
If every life is so valuable, why do I fear mediocrity?
Why are the colors of nature and the rainbow not enough?
Why is light splitting seven ways, not enough?
Why do I want to paint myself or write myself in fluorescence,
Glowing in the dark?
Why do I want to be spectacular and magnificent in a world so much bigger than me?
I am spectacularly little,
Why can’t that be enough?
The keys are stuck in the ignition not turning either way.