I am not the chosen one
my body is not hardened from battles with my foes,
I don’t have eyes that burn through space,
or pierce through the soul,
my body is simply a culmination,
from the many years of my ancestors roaming the earth,
before pouring themselves into me,
I am not predestined for greatness,
there is no hopeful mass that counts upon me,
no merry band,urges me forward,
towards the weights of glorious achievements,
that surely only I can accomplish,
I only have my own burning ambitions,
and a golden glow shining far off in the future,
that I promise myself will be reached one day,
I am not special,
seeing me in the street would not cause you interest,
more than likely,
I would be out of your mind in the span of a minute,
there would be no hint of
the greatness I plan for myself,
in burning aspirations held
safely beneath my rib cage,
I am not perfect,
thousands of years of survival-ism gave me,
eyes that blur the world,
and a heart that doesn’t allow breath,
while crossing the street,
however I still have the word survival etched on
the once fractured bone of my right arm,
and adapt imprinted into
the curve of the words flowing from my left,
There are no landmarks on the map of life for me,
I paint my own path,
and I do so by messily splashing colors over these stark white walkways
ink black footprints trailing behind me,
on the Aurora Borealis,
made of my failures and victories,
and I continue to walk,
because,
I am not the chosen one,
luckily,
and the world expects nothing of me,
luckily,
and,
this is good,
this means,
...
I still have the element of surprise.