briefly, lackluster poetry for the half-awake and morose


I was born second. Second place, second class, second rate.

Always the outsider, always at arm’s length. Always in the shadow of others’ successes.

The good kid with no testimony, the bad kid with no rap sheet. The rebel who didn’t want to revolt, the vanguard dissatisfied with the status quo. The prophet without words, the visionary with no dreams.

Smart, well-spoken, sequestered.

The selfless cynic, willing to die on any number of hills. Willing to die in an age without martyrs. Willing to die.

Willing to live, to share life, to throw everything away and hold on to it all.

Second, as seconds passed into patiently impatient months.

Eminently disposable. Second to any number of true or false Joshuas. Eminently ignorable.

Second guessed. Always available.

Will that time ever come?

Will I yet be used?

I was born second, but I wonder if I was ever born at all.

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One thought on “briefly, lackluster poetry for the half-awake and morose

  1. Hate this and love this, Brent. The reality of you feeling this way is painstaking, but your telling thereof is refreshing and inspiring. Thank you for hitting life – complexities and all – head on.

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