What if my stories are just for me,
and my poems are just poetry?
What if I get gratification
by staring at the checkmark
on your shoe until I feel accomplished?
What if I don’t want to be an artist?
What if I just want to draw,
and what if my paintings are
just color on canvas?
What if I don’t want to be an athlete?
What if I get victory from playing
and what if dirt-smeared smiles are my specialty?
What if I want to make jean cut-offs
and sharpie every piece of white?
What if the days come too early,
and the nights too soon?
What if there is nothing on this earth that I want to do,
and you can never seem to please me?
What if I don’t want to change the world?
What if I want to sit back and watch it change itself,
observe the rebirthing of it all?
What if it’s a new day?
What if doing what runs through the very core of your heart,