I am not brilliant. <br />I highly doubt I ever will be. <br />I chased it once, came face <br />to face with it, was stared <br />down by it, and have since made <br />my peace with a lesser fate. <br /> <br />In a natural quest for enlightenment <br />I have diligently sought the wisdom of <br />those whose writing is listed <br />under Roget as Brilliant. <br />I have read, reread, <br />and read again, <br />struggling to process each fragmented <br />image, each tabloid attempt <br />at sensuality, each revolutionary <br />form that to me reeks of laziness. <br />Revolution. <br />I seek the genius of each name, bitter <br />with lust for the promise of jeweled words <br />sparkling on my tongue. <br />My cereal wilts. My coffee sours <br />from sweet milk left alone with heat <br />too long. I missed the moment. <br />I must be missing the point entirely. <br /> <br />I slowly rise to the possibility <br />of some big fraternity joke. <br />Cheerleading tryouts without a team. <br />Somewhere in my humiliation I snap <br />and smash it all to pieces. <br />My hands defend me ripping words, frustrated <br />at their lack of weight as they drift <br />slowly and pretentiously to the floor. <br />My tantrum rages as I tear and pull apart <br />each and every metaphor. <br /> <br />Then, feeling somehow vindicated, <br />I stand triumphantly over my creation. <br />Destruction In Three Stanzas: A Four-Lettered Sonnet. <br />Intentional and controlled, I judge the broken words. <br />Lying there layered, injured, limping <br />under foot, shattered and torn, rearranged <br />and out of order, they speak <br />now of vulnerability. They make no sense, <br />and no longer struggle with effort. <br />They speak of life and death in tatters <br />on the ground. Lying there, peaceful <br />in chaos, they are suddenly beautiful. <br />They are brilliant.<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brush-with-brilliance/
