Red Rock

Imagine you had a superpower, such as the ability to fly. What’s more, you were the only person in the universe with this superpower. But time and time again you came home after a long day of life and realized… shit, I completely forgot to fly today. 

That is, more or less, how I feel about my poetry. It is a rare and precious talent which, for some inexplicable reason, was gifted to me. I may not be the only person in the world who can write poetry, but I’m the only one who can write mine. 

And yet every night I come home and I have a cup of tea and I watch The Daily Show and I nestle into the blankets and say shit. 

I didn’t make the time to fly. Again. I didn’t use my rare and precious gift. I wasted my superpower.