Ordinary

Photo by Mike Tinnion on Unsplash

I could have been ordinary.
Instead, I stained my life with ink,
marked whole years
with bent pages
and fluttering Post-it notes.

I chose the poet’s life.

What if it is all delusion?
All hunger.
All sitting alone in the dark,
waiting for something worthy
to crawl through me
and call itself a poem.

But what if I am only ordinary?
Just a girl
pressing words together,
mistaking ache
for art.

My gut screams
I will never become
what I keep crawling toward
over the shards of my truth.

So what happens to a soul
that was made
to want too much?

Does it starve?
Does it rot quietly
from the inside out?
Does it learn
how to live unsatisfied?

I don’t know.
I fear it does.

Because still,
I wake up
unwritten.

No answers here.
Just breath and ink.
Only always.

With love,
Sutton