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