A Poem Inspired by Mediocrity

I am afraid:

Afraid

That my insides are Splenda

When my bones ache for sugar,

And my tongue collapses

Under the weight of fake white crystal,

With an after-taste.

I am afraid:

Afraid

That I’ve become my own handshake

With my worth in my grip.

That I’ve become the essay handed in late

And two pages too short.

That I am more virtual than physical,

The sum of Facebook and Friendster and Linkedin:

Digital revisions of self

Tell the story of triumph.

No matter,

It’s been photoshopped in.

I am still Splenda,

Not sugar.

And,

I am afraid. 

French rap plays in the background. I breathe in and nod my head. The Atlantic Magazine website is open. I am searching for something, searching for an interesting article to post to my Facebook, searching for something to make me more colorful, to make people think I'm more colorful, that is.

That's what Facebook is for, after all. Building an identity when you've all but lost your own.

But

I am afraid. I am afraid that my insides are made of Splenda when they long to be sugar, that I am only an imitation of who I want to be.

With a desk. A computer. A professional phone-answering voice. A handshake.

Searching.

I am afraid of not knowing who I am or what I want. I am afraid of mediocrity. I am afraid of not living up to the person I always believed I'd become.

I am afraid of singing off key. I am afraid of sounding silly when I leave a message. I am tired, and I am trying to remember who I am and who I was.