NEXT* YEAR
next year is a whisper
on the horizon;
out of reach, out of earshot,
too surreal to imagine
but it's written all in
uppercase, bold, and it screams
from the paper, punctuated by
a string of invisible question marks
no longer secured in the safety net
of adolescence, set loose into the world
with basic knowledge: how to ride a bike,
howto drive a car, how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide,
but what does it help?
what does it help when there's a largely uncharted
world waiting to be explored? when there's anxiety,
and fear, and a lack of confidence to hold one back from exploring it?
when there are so many options, but none of them appeal?
it does not help, and that's the thing;
we're unleashed into adulthood, equipped with nothing more than a
flimsy sword, swinging blindly but making no contact
soldiers fighting with no cause, burning embers that never
grow into flames, caterpillars that have not completely
broken free from their cocoons; we are foolish, and naive,
frightened of a world we know little about
what i am to do, they ask,
but how do i answer a question i can't even comprehend?
NEXT YEAR* is not real, it can't be, not when it makes my
head spin and my stomach twist and my brain explode
it cannot be
it cannot be
it cannot be
but* it *is
