Definitions.

Ah, success so saccharine!

Here I shake in the corner

sand off the sides of my hourglass, 

remembering those grains spent

carrying leaky buckets for gold 

while hungry mariachis dodge pelted fruit.

Lying on a park bench, eyes clenched

afraid of the spotlight, afraid it misses me,

here on this bold tarmac where I've tossed my dice.

What if there is nothing more than empty boxes, 

these presents I’ve laid at your feet, 
my gumdrops of suffering and blood?

If I respin this roulette wheel,

with my chips on odd instead of uneven,

tell me how it would be for me

to pledge to art's uncertainty.

Might I have profited more to revel

in the scent of every petal?

Or rather should my sand be spent

on gold-encrusted electronic gizmos,

ceiling-to-floor plasma-screens,

Versace Barocco pet bowls,

diamond-studded fish hooks,

and a never-driven Lamborghini?

No, I'm keeping my chips on the table

betting my life grain by grain,

knowing every moment I toil

passionate, committed, self-aware

exceeds the assurances of myth peddlers

and their close embrace of bucking finality.

I'd rather have dreams and uncertainty

than the certainty of lost possibilities,

letting fear of gatekeepers cripple my strokes

of pens, picks, brushes, sticks, and the very spit of my breath,

as I sing the song resonating in my core.

It defines the currents of my life, who I am.

OK. Perhaps the fruit I harvest is not as sweet

but it's mine

and at least I can taste it.