What the hell am I going to do?
Hanging from a mental thread, softly, swollen, broken
among the other stupid boy soldiers laying
in fragments along the carpenter’s bench, collections of
red paint slowly creeping its way out from beneath
them in every conceivable direction.
Yet, they are all still considered flawless by design, the
poster children for a society deemed on the verge
of self-realization, almost as if promoting a new Renaissance.
For I, more broken than the rest, seem fixated on the
idea of self-liberation, despite my obvious handicaps.
Do I attempt to break the conformity of this, my own superficial
landscape, and crawl my way off this wooden ledge?
Do I have Daedalus’ vigor, without Icarus’ arrogance?
Even my heroes would call this move bold.
Wilde would turn his nose up to the notion, maybe even
mock it, proclaiming to me that it is but one gesture that is insignificant.
Poe would create a brooding tale with underlying themes of
insanity and lunacy, staring me down and giving me
a feeling that I may be most comfortable in a strait-jacket.
Dickinson would create something epic, giving my struggle
a theme of romanticism.
Despite it all, I wish to use what pieces are left of me and push myself
up, reaching for the goal that rests just above my head.
Just a little bit of strength and I can achieve the promised land.
I know that I have to at least make the attempt, for if I don’t, I am no
different than the other poor, discarded pieces
of decorated pine and cedar laying troubled upon this workbench.
That in turn, makes me nothing more than the broken piece of
wood I have been brought up to believe, giving me no sense
of self-worth or inner peace.