Rose, Prose, Poetry

Ludicrous

It's ludicrous, the way I want it.

The way I want to become a heightened being,

Enlightenment lifting my mind into a lofty state

So that ridiculously lengthy words flow from my lips,

Cascading in scintillating strings that glisten like silver webs,

Weaving together to form coherent wisdom.

I seek it, the coming of age,

The day when the dawn finally becomes fantastical,

And I can greet the day with the air of a distinguishable adult,

A sire or mademoiselle or ethereal, genderless being,

Sorted out, sophisticated, and calm as I grace the ground,

Walking across clean, cleared floors and eating breakfast

Because I can eat three meals consistently and meet my deadlines,

Making time to follow a hobby or two and pursuing something

Greater than this feeble routine in the finite universe

That will persist beyond my breakable vessel before I sleep,

Resting my mind and eyes with only a few troubles flitting in my chest,

Soft, fluttering moths that rest in my lungs

As I lull to sleep.

But it's not here yet. I'm too young.

I keep thinking my thoughts can be pieced together

To make sense. But they can't. Because the thoughts -

They're nonsense. Madness. Yet they feel important

Because my brain is still growing. I'm still becoming.

But the in-between is an incredible aching pain.

I breathe, and stumble.

I wake up, and struggle.

And when I break through, I break down, only to break through again.

But I know I'll be sane. I'll be making sense one day,

And one fateful day, I'll break out the door,

Entering the world of maturity, adulthood, and peace.