If your arms, mapped with veins, to your sides rest,
Then the sky is no tyrant, nor man’s rage.
But for sun, skin aches, success conquers jest,
And it’s those who strive that find space a cage.
When wants slaughter needs the culprits are dreams,
That steer you away from the path in sight,
Until life is mundane, no longer gleams;
Reality turns an abyss of night.
It is then you see it’s despair you crave;
Your goals confine but there’s nothing ahead,
For this race for success ends with your grave,
And your fantasies have made you misled.
Thus in your haste to take flight in a day,
Your unmade wings chain you down, to decay.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.