The Failure of the Prophet

i'm nervous.

before i even jump on stage
and pretend these wooden
planks are a word of
my own creation,

i feel my stomach's treason
bubbling and knotting
all my confidence,
kinking the hose to
my pure self expression.

and all the attention
adds heat to the already
burning, smoldering pile
of chard ash that is
my artistic ambition,

i had a vision
but this spot light
has melted it.

and while i prance,
singing praises to romance,
self-discovery,
hilarity,
and the shame of being broken;

i'll lament never hitting
the quick of those
original intentions,

the burden of the applause
is the proof that
i have failed.

i never meant to entertain,
i had only wanted to educate.