Getting there.

I’m seventeen and crippled for ten.
Stymied. Hindered
Because I don’t put one foot 
Or one thought
In front of the other.
Because my curse is a bully
Who only knows how to play a game called 
Punching Bag.

They still ask me how I live.
It’s natural selection, they say,
and you’re not one of the fittest
so why are you still here? 

I’m a cocaine addict one minute
And a Halloween ghost the
Next. But I’ve always been the underappreciated
Candle inside society’s jack-o-latern,
Forever trying to burn its way out
Singe, scorch those fibrous
Seams and break! Break into probability
From impossibility.
They ask how that is possible.

I must leave my dimension of dementia
Where everything isn’t is
And seek a sanctuary outside
The confines of earthly realms,
Where nothing is isn’t.
They ask how I will ever arrive.

Reality’s current has always
Unforgivingly repelled me past
My origin and past my limits. Yet I
Find the energy to undefeat my purpose
Only to watch myself deflected once more.
And they ask why I keep trying.

One day, I’ll wake to a morning
That they will all take for granted.
One day, I’ll conquer the riptides of
This imprecation and swim on.
One day, I’ll be the person asking them
How they ever doubted me.