High Air

I hated what I did—
Work was only what I’d do
And like the subterranean crew
Was desperate to breathe.

I recall reading Sainte Exupery
Who found adventure
Flying over deserts
Delivering the mail.

Once his plane went down
And he spent the night
Sleeping on the wing
Staring up at stars.

I wonder if he felt
The vertigo
Of falling into the cosmos
The same sensation
I felt nights
When I’d do the same—
Feel the frisson
Of staring up into stars.

But my adventures
Were all inside my head;
And no romance,
Only dead ends.

But I’d write
Late into the night,
Unpublished,
Writing for no one—
Amusing myself
Making unknowable art.

I wanted so much
For everything to mean
And was desperate to breathe.

After some time
Writing became my life
I found my voice;
Not in the desert,
But in the city noise.

I learned
When you're broken
Everything gets a little honester;
You make mistakes
But don't give a damn –
Give up on perfection,
But get real...

The secret to writing
Is get your own pain –
Shout it out till it hurts your throat –
Weep it into your pillow
Then write it down

Until you do,
You’ll labor under a curse
Unknown,
And buried
Beneath a weight of dreams…

Struggling to breathe
Under high air.