i hate the word potential.
it’s one of the few words that always meant well but was only ever spoken
by sad drunken mothers,
shaking their heads while whispering into the phone
about the child she always forgets to mention in the daily report.
they always had such potential
they wasted their potential
they never realized their potential.
my mother always wanted to play piano.
And as long as I can remember, we had one, a piano,
sitting fat and dusty in the entryway,
to be passed everyday on the way in or out like a sad dog
watching you pass by again and again without taking a second look
at its empty bowl or matting fur.
She paid for lessons that I hated
and as soon as my sister gave her a grandchild and that grandchild could sit up on it's own
she sat her down at the piano,
hoping that someone would finally pay some attention
to that **** dog.
i ***** out words on pages
I scribble faces on slate
I even try to carry a tune.
Trying to see what she saw, what talented life did I turn away from?
What choice did I make that made it all turn sour?
Was it the homework I never did
or the drugs I tried
or the *** I had that suddenly turned my future from bright to dim.
Should I weep for what I could have been?
Should I beg forgiveness because I stumbled and lost the race the rest of the world is running?
I don’t want to.
I don’t want an office.
I don’t want an education.
I don’t want a husband.
I don’t want kids.
And I don’t want to ******* play piano.