I am not brilliant. br I highly doubt I ever will be. br I chased it once, came face br to face with it, was stared br down by it, and have since made br my peace with a lesser fate. br br In a natural quest for enlightenment br I have diligently sought the wisdom of br those whose writing is listed br under Roget as Brilliant. br I have read, reread, br and read again, br struggling to process each fragmented br image, each tabloid attempt br at sensuality, each revolutionary br form that to me reeks of laziness. br Revolution. br I seek the genius of each name, bitter br with lust for the promise of jeweled words br sparkling on my tongue. br My cereal wilts. My coffee sours br from sweet milk left alone with heat br too long. I missed the moment. br I must be missing the point entirely. br br I slowly rise to the possibility br of some big fraternity joke. br Cheerleading tryouts without a team. br Somewhere in my humiliation I snap br and smash it all to pieces. br My hands defend me ripping words, frustrated br at their lack of weight as they drift br slowly and pretentiously to the floor. br My tantrum rages as I tear and pull apart br each and every metaphor. br br Then, feeling somehow vindicated, br I stand triumphantly over my creation. br Destruction In Three Stanzas: A Four-Lettered Sonnet. br Intentional and controlled, I judge the broken words. br Lying there layered, injured, limping br under foot, shattered and torn, rearranged br and out of order, they speak br now of vulnerability. They make no sense, br and no longer struggle with effort. br They speak of life and death in tatters br on the ground. Lying there, peaceful br in chaos, they are suddenly beautiful. br They are brilliant.