But what will I be if I never get these things sorted out?
Is my potential still wasted,
Or is it waiting?
Is my potential bottled up on a shelf collecting dust in the back of my cabinet?
Did I stuff it into a closet that I’ve lost the keys to?
If I never find something to be great at,
What was the point?
Of eating glass,
Stomping through fire,
Letting my body get cut with slices of printer paper until
I was merely muscle exposed.
Is there meaning to be made if I am not great?

What is this madness that lives within me
That has to be great?
I’m desperate.
That’s gotta be it,
The desperation pushes me to cling
To the idea of creating
Something that dares rival the pain
They pumped into me.
Is my desperation ever going to be enough?

I might drown in the words I write before I die
I might break my hands before I believe
A sentence of mine is good enough.
The obsession makes the art
The art feeds the obsession.
I’m rocked back on my heels.
If I’m on my heels at the bottom of the mountain
What chance do I have?
Can I be satisfied down here?

Is this my messiah complex leaking out of me?
Telling me to seek greatness is the only way.
These maps inside me are a maze
Laughing at me as I try to walk through their twists and turns
I’m the great illusionist,
Forever wondering
If I’ve ever known an ounce of truth,
Beyond I am here
And I will be gone.
And I might never be great.