What is wrong with being ordinary?
I wonder as I struggle against my own ordinariness,
Trying to do away with mediocrity
Which burns in the wake of excellence around me.
Eliot's 'Hollow Men' and Angelou's 'Caged Birds'
Were ordinaries too, coated with literary beauty.
But I am neither 'hollow' nor 'caged' I presume
So how do I become great?
My plainness mocks at my arrogant dream
My prosaic heart tries in vain to hum a poem.
My fingers itch to etch a flawless sketch
Of my humdrum dreams and eluding hopes.
Bemused and befuddled, I struggle and ask
What is wrong with being ordinary?
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