Writing a great act of untangling
Successful act of crocodile wrangling
finally retrieving
That apple of Tartarus that’s dangling
If I don’t write,
I’ve no way to ground
after I take flight
At the speed of sound
It is a great act of banishing
A treasure chest safe to store one’s burdens in
To keep what’s deep in my core
Buried deep miserably stored
Or to release them into the world
To be sneered at or adored
To write is an act of mental decompression
As a matter of fact it cures my depression
Whenever the pen is in session
Pain meets it’s inevitable cessation
Inside exists an unbearable pressure
Greater than any instrument can measure
And the only way I can get it to taper
Is if I make my pencil meet paper
So much inside that needs to be expressed!
I’ve forced myself into a shoe that’s too small
I’ve buried myself alive
I’ve tried so hard to blend in with the humans
But the pressure has reached its pinnacle
It’s fever pitch
A zenith
If I hold it in a second longer I’ll explode
Hopefully taking with it my abode
Those who I blame on my stunted growth
How can one make sense of any of this?
I search for form where there is none
I seek ground but am met with sea
I seek clarity but fog surrounds me
How can the mortal mind bear what I am witness to?
I’m just a boy. What are you doing to me?
How can I make sense of these two worlds?
Above and below? Contrary polarities?
I’ve tried so hard to hold it together. But what if I finally let go?
The truth is my entire life has been for show.
Perhaps of the Truman variety.
But if I stay cramped here,
Underneath their staircase,
My bones will have no room to grow.
Here is the irrefutable fact:
My life is reaching a climax.
I must embrace my need for metamorphosis
Or risk entering a spiritual rigor mortis
This cocoon is just so fucking tight though
My wings have no room to stretch
I have to choose either to uphold the integrity
Of my skeleton and flesh
Or the cocoon
My home, my ancestral mesh