Brush With Brilliance Poem by Lori Boulard

I am not brilliant.
I highly doubt I ever will be.
I chased it once, came face
to face with it, was stared
down by it, and have since made
my peace with a lesser fate.

In a natural quest for enlightenment
I have diligently sought the wisdom of
those whose writing is listed
under Roget as Brilliant.
I have read, reread,
and read again,
struggling to process each fragmented
image, each tabloid attempt
at sensuality, each revolutionary
form that to me reeks of laziness.
Revolution.
I seek the genius of each name, bitter
with lust for the promise of jeweled words
sparkling on my tongue.
My cereal wilts. My coffee sours
from sweet milk left alone with heat
too long. I missed the moment.
I must be missing the point entirely.

I slowly rise to the possibility
of some big fraternity joke.
Cheerleading tryouts without a team.
Somewhere in my humiliation I snap
and smash it all to pieces.
My hands defend me ripping words, frustrated
at their lack of weight as they drift
slowly and pretentiously to the floor.
My tantrum rages as I tear and pull apart
each and every metaphor.

Then, feeling somehow vindicated,
I stand triumphantly over my creation.
Destruction In Three Stanzas: A Four-Lettered Sonnet.
Intentional and controlled, I judge the broken words.
Lying there layered, injured, limping
under foot, shattered and torn, rearranged
and out of order, they speak
now of vulnerability. They make no sense,
and no longer struggle with effort.
They speak of life and death in tatters
on the ground. Lying there, peaceful
in chaos, they are suddenly beautiful.
They are brilliant.