See, the problem with
          perfection

     is there are no
               flaws
     to fall in love with.

I wonder
          just how
          lonely
     that would feel.

you aren't the type to be afraid
and this isn't the time to start -

this is the moment
when you show them
that you are made of
dreams written in ink,
that you are
etymologies and
Roman trivia,
that there is more passion in you
than your fingerprints can leave
on all the castles you have built.

this is when you must remember
that you were made
on wishbones and
molotov cocktails,
unforgiving and unbreakable, that
your veins pulse with a lightning
that cracks cobblestone pavements
and speaks in Spanish.

this is when you face the music
and your heart beats in thunder as you say
that you are so much more
than the sum of your letters -
so much more
than lines on paper and the way
you can make empires crumble
with your words -
so much more
than seven minutes of speaking
like you own the sky.

so here we go.

three.
two.
one.

I am not a sparrow
(although I'd like to be)

I am not small enough to fit in palms
tired and torn
from climbing the walls guarding hope;

I do not carry spring on the tips of my tailfeathers,
flowers blooming in my wake
and the smiles of a cold world
resting on my song;

I cannot be caught, caged, wings clipped and
kept, behind cold, cast-iron bars
of sense and simplicity,
my words meant to be given upon command
and loved only for repetition and wretchedness;

I was not meant to sing of the clear blue skies,
I was meant to rule the grey.

I am an albatross.