I am on the tips of my toes,
balancing on the edge of forever,
staring down into a cloud of greatness.
I teeter on the thin line of have
and have not,
a bundle of nerves and a strung out lie,
unaware of but turning towards
what seems to be
Had I a choice I would freeze,
spin, 180 on my delicate perch,
relive with wide eyes what I have
come to take for granted.
My ears are deaf to the sound of my father's boots,
clanking in the kitchen and
richocheting into the sound of home.
Impervioius I stand,
yet astonishingly blind to the love of my mother,
her beautiful wisdom and grace.
Baffled endlessly, infuriatingly, by
the innocence of my brother,
for somewhere in my heart
I realize I too must have been as small,
as unassuming and content.
Undeniably, I remain unable still
to grasp the significance of the word
even at the age I have impossibly and surprisingly
lived to reach.
The string I stand on slices my skin,
bloodies the soles of my feet,
ruins the tenderness and
turns me to stone.
No longer am I who I am,
and no further does the me I knew travel.
Who I wish I was is a refleciton,
staring through a cracked mirror,
shattered by the truth
and the laws of what must be.
So I linger on, suspended,
not stunned, but subdued into silence,
and silence soon will me
all that is left of me.