Sooner or later I'll have
to face the fact that
I'm not really good at anything
Yes, I dabble in writing
[the art of fashioning
buzzing thoughts into something
vaguely meaningful] and oh, I can make
the piano shout truths to the world
by hammering its keys and feeling
every palpitating sliver of love
and grief burst from my
callused fingertips
And yes, I can sneak candid
photographs of strangers laughing
or walking or dropping
their crumpled cellophane wrappers
into the street when they think
no one is watching
And here and there
I dance, twisting my
spine into contortions of human expression
wrestling with gravity until
my muscles spasm
and give out
flirting with the edges of my
endurance until I can't take it any more
and I go down,
gasping
But contrary to some people's
beliefs, this is not talent or skill
This is not mastery or ability
This is me stripping myself
down to the very essence of
my character
tearing the insecurities away like
an old Band-Aid
shoving my ugly fears into the light
before they can get the better of me
This is not vision or genius
This is a gloriously chaotic mess
of swirling thoughts and feelings
turned into something tangible
This is not art
This is just me playing with the raw
exhilaration
of being alive