My Starry Night
I wear drugstore makeup,
walmart clothes,
hand-me-downs and
shoes with holes.
Neither poor nor rich,
happy nor sad.
I am not right nor left,
but forever in between.
I have the Mona Lisa smile
that wishes for a life beyond simple.
Not so simple as four hundred followers.
Not so easy as one hundred likes.
I am gray
and charcoal,
confused blots of paint.
Not so simple as black and white.
Not so easy as objective sight.
I am a line drawn without a ruler,
a name written with my left hand,
a drawing done with a blindfold,
just another grain of sand.
I am small and very lonely,
complex and confused.
I sit on my roof and look at the stars,
filling up the darkest, blackest canvas.
Pockets of light,
they are bright, beautiful, brilliant.
And I know what I want.
I want more than four hundred followers.
So much more than one hundred likes.
I want to be the brightest, most brilliant star.
Gazed at,
admired,
respected,
remembered.
And I know what I am -
I am afraid.
I am afraid that on the beautiful canvas,
on the vast expanse of opportunity,
on the night sky that has no boundaries,
I will not be a glittering star.
I am afraid that I will be just another grain of sand,
never leaving the ground,
threaded into the familiarity.
Forever remaining small,
lonely,
complex
and confused.