Terminate the uber-talented, controversial guitarists
in their embrace over the entranced dozens.
Seize their strings, bite those skillful fingers
until they condense to become like mine.
Drink the sorrow off the bottomless bowls
spewing potions through their rhymes.
Bring home their beloved
so we need not hear of it again.
And for the ingenious kids that lift hands
to each question
next to the backbencher likes of us:
diffuse the light bulbs that go off in their minds.
Lord, let me be special today.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.