when i was younger and bold as mars,
i danced on the head of a pin,
words dripping from my scrambled-egg mind
like they meant more than the rain.
"don't touch the sun, you'll only burn"
they warned. i listened instead
to the angels calling me
to fly, fly, fly
into glittering fantasies
and vapor dreams of heaven.
but in ferocious extremes,
my life was claimed by forces from beyond,
and i died on the ides of march.
i thought i was headed to heaven,
but now i'm told that the angels lied.
the sparrows in the oak tree
try to sing me to sleep,
but if i sleep, i will forget
the words that built up inside of me
like snow in the winter.
i imagine the walls are fields of lavender,
the tiles are grass and dirt,
and the pills are marigolds and orchids,
all growing under the sunshine of fluorescent lights.
as i fall out of heaven,
i wonder which angels betrayed me.
my mind is still dancing in the sky
when the birds sing farewell
to send me back into reality.
Leaving is easy--
it's coming back that's hard.
as i walk home, it is a battle
between my body and the next step.
i can only fight
when someone suggests
i might be more than worthless.
my map is all wrong,
and i do not want to be part of the universe
as long as i am in it.
i want to believe
that god or the planets or something
watches over me
and cares about my fate.
but i know better,
for all i can offer
are unfinished stories
and words that never say anything right.
love is just another symptom;
my world revolves around nothing.
i cycle over and over
between sleepless nights
and trans-siberian railways of thought
(oh body, please be tired, it's not that hard)
and dreams of death that startle me awake
and make me hate myself for breathing.
(oh brain, please re-balance, is that so hard?)
i only succeed at giving up
or exploding like an alkali metal
dropped in water.
in the bitter light of day,
my body rebuilds
from the pieces broken by lightning.
it hurts to know that i have lost
a million fragments
to the rain that reminds me
that spring is here.
but maybe the pain means i'm healing,
for we can't rise again until we die.
after all the cycles of flying and falling,
i am aching, worn, scared.
but in the end, i wake up
in spite of my anxieties
and learn to love myself more
with every breath.
i can't look back and see perfection,
the great journey of my youthful dreams,
but i am here today,
and for now, all is well.
A/N: Revised from https://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work/niteowl/rebuilding-of-a-young-mad-poet-146454. Hopefully this draft is a little more cohesive and the weirdness a bit more manageable.