Every high brings dread:
the impending lows approach.
For every extraordinary day,
there are a hundred ordinary ones
living a routine I never wanted,
but needed to survive.
Poetry can dream and promise,
but what power does it have
to change the life of a fool
so in love with his dreams
he forgets how to live?
Not much, I bet.
Where is the magic in every day?
Trapped somewhere beneath my skin,
is this all my fault?
Is exuberance a choice,
or thrust upon the willing,
or a lie I tell myself?
-Zero
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