or so they tell me when they look me in the eye
and rip the thoughts from my head,
when they question why my eyes are the scarlet red of roses
but where they flutter,
gently on the breeze
drop like I have no idea how to land,
all stiff limbs and forgotten technics on
“how the hell am I supposed to pull a parachute when it’s
full of rocks”
I am a prodigy because
I can type 89 words per minute,
because I can read a book in one night,
three chapters in a decimal point below 0.
and yet my fingers bleed so much that
I don’t know when it started
and my mind is so muddled with all the hopes
people stuff in,
like cotton it is hazy and blocked but burning,
and oh how burning would be grand,
does nothing for me.
see I am a prodigy
for I can see a future where the sun is a
stain upon gas-mixed skies,
where we send our children into life
like war was the first word they uttered.
how a gun can be a feeling fired from your brain,
a gun is no longer made of metal but
the broken dreams of all those who fell before me.
I am not a prodigy because I can write well,
because I know the correct lexical structure of a sentence,
because I can write a paper in one hour while
high off my mind on nicotine and wine.
I am a prodigy because I see reality
and like a star,
thousands of pieces