I firmly believe that poetry is a degenerate practice only engaged in by people too languid and ethereal to write a complete sentence.  That said, I’ve been writing poetry a bit lately.  Mea culpa.

You have so much potential
You can’t even see it
so much potential it looms over you,
washes out your whole life
in the shadow of our hopes for you.

For sure one day they’ll introduce you and your Potential.
They talk about it enough.
You’ll come to the dinner table and there Potential will be,
sitting in your chair
finishing your vegetables
Potential brushes perfect teeth with your toothbrush
and flosses, of course
and lies down in your bed
and there is no room for you in this house

Somewhere, Potential is living your best life
They tell you all the time
You could be like that if you tried
As if Potential is your big brother
bringing home trophies while you drown in his hand-me-downs

For all they talk
Potential never does show up at the dinner table
or the test
or the interview
When you wonder if it’s running late, they say
“A seed has tons of potential
But nobody gives a fuck about a seed
Until it becomes a flower.”

And you sit in your terracotta pot and you wonder
how long you have to scold a radish seed
before it grows into a rose.


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