I wonder if I'll ever make something of my dreams.
What if I don't?
What if I die?

What if I end up having poured all my living into this escapism?
Everyone tells me not to think of these things.
They tell me to not “think so morbidly”
They say I'm 'just seventeen'.

So therefore I cannot die?
So I should throw a ******* parade in my reckless ignorance,
And I should do what most of us do,
Pretend that death isn’t stalking us every. ****. day,
Pretend that I am promised tomorrow so I can afford to procrastinate today?

Maybe we’re ahead of the game if we accept this fact now.
So hell yeah, I’m seventeen.
And I’m forcing myself to face the truth you chose to dance around.

At first you’ll be dizzy
From the moment you realize the world doesn’t revolve around you.
When your mind starts to settle and the reticence dissipates,
Everything you’ve kept hushed up for so long suddenly seems to be screaming at you.

You won’t be able to handle it,
It’s a taste and tolerance that you never acquired
And so you go mad, and then you’ll turn into a poet.
Not out of skill, nor choice – but necessity.
I need you as much as you need me.
You’d have to be mad to be an artist,
You’d have to be mad to create poetry.