cusp

poetry

pride fills my lungs (not air)
as i descend these steps (no elevator)
holding stacks of books (no backpack)
at arms length
at waist height
thinking how much i’ll learn (i know so little)
if i can plow through these (likely I wont)
line after line (not page by page)
of language i dont understand (its all tahitian to me)
as i write
as i read
lacking comprehension
eternally standing on the cusp of brilliance

never jumping