Can I still be a star?
As a child, I wanted to be famous.
Can I still be the star? Can I call crawling dancing? Can you throw roses? Can I still be sweet? The world is my stage but it’s shrunk to the size of my bathroom. The audience is here but they’ve fallen asleep. I know my younger self would be disappointed. I am not a star–I am most of the time barely coherent. Is it at least an elegant fall? From grace–or worse from destiny? I thought I’d become more. I think that is what I hate, the sobering in maturing. There is green in my skin–I admit it, you’ve got me. I was told I had charisma, a good face for it, but my face has hardened, my youth has spoiled. It’s not that I think of myself that highly. I am not any more entitled to shining as the moon is, borrowed light and all. All I’m saying is that I thought I’d do something by now. I thought God uncapped me, maybe everyone else couldn't but I could. Is it the crush of normality? Is that what burdens me? No, it’s that I hold a small hand in my heart because I have nothing to give her, I hold, I hold. I thought I’d be a star but they are already dead. It’s been light years and I haven't moved. I miss it. Holding the pose, waiting for light. Knowing it was inside me, singing light beams. I am many things. On earth, is one of them. On earth is the worst of them.