delusions of grandeur

it looks so easy.
all of it.
dancing, singing,
writing a poem a day.
living, and living well.
there’s very little
I haven’t been able
to conquer
if given enough
time and willpower.

but maybe it’s mania.
it’s in my blood
after all,
like witchcraft
and a penchant for
poetry and activism.

it’s a lot to
live up to,
my parents’ expectations
and my own.
is it self-preservation
that makes me pursue
everything that catches
my fancy
or is it mental illness
clouding my notions
of possible, of practicable,
of real?

maybe I’ll never know,
but
I’ll die trying.

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