Committed to the eternal frustration of poetry,
I seek answers where there are none
And blaze a trail for my dreams that linger behind.
At night I count my regrets and shoot them into the sky
Where they take their place amongst millions of others,
A place where my eyes often wander in the evening
Looking for some proof that I’ll be okay.
In the day I shove myself to the back of my mind
And make room for the world to take refuge,
Taking in all of its inhabitants without bias
(Although Anxiety and Depression take up too much room
And Joy and Hope are much nicer than them).
“If only I know where I will belong,”
My thoughts still manage to whisper
As the weight of the world piles up
On top of the world already in my mind.
I roam the depths of both dimensions for meaning
Or maybe even for a depth of my own;
I long to learn and absorb knowledge of any sort,
Even as it crushes my naïve and childish wishes
That I didn’t realize still existed until their brokenness
Make me notice their former importance,
Because I lose a little more curiosity and simple happiness
Every time those longing lights are snuffed out.
Again and again I sacrifice parts of myself for other things:
Innocence for experience, sanity for survival,
And satisfaction for poetry, even when my writing
Further infuriates and annoys me for having left out
The poem I originally intended to write.
Like a fire I jump at the slightest inspiration
And burn as brightly as I can to feel accomplished,
Only to learn that the inspiration was mere kindling
And without true fuel, I burn out once more.
So, having been defeated once more
By the words I tried to turn into wings I could keep,
I resign myself to the flaws of being human
And accept the fleeting flight of poetry;
For in the end, what more am I
Than a beautiful mess defined by my mortality?