Expectations on me run high,
But spare me that potential bit,
For talent, I seem to have nigh,
Save for the flashes in whit.
Make up, I do try to, what I lack,
Paired up, with my sweat,
Dedication behind every act,
Outcomes in moderation might beget.
Caressing my failures in disquiet,
The first instinct is tears,
Buried within a raging quyot,
A scarlet mound of fears.
Aim for the sky, they say,
And reach for the shiny stars,
What’s the price I have to pay?
A soul seared with scars?
Continue I may with aspiration,
But, I shan’t be deemed special,
Struck I am with the revelation,
In the universe, am just a speckle.