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.