Rust

     
I've lain upon this bed of rusty nails

For these few hundred years.

     I wonder at the quickly passing snails,

While through my wondering heart torment sears.

     I watch the truths of fairy tales,

But I know the silliness of wishing upon my falling tears.

     I lay on these nails in mindless sorrow,

Thinking not of what I could do today.

     Instead I ponder what will be tomorrow,

Or freeing myself the next day.

     I want of humanity on the morrow

What I already threw away.

     Pent up tears bruise my throat

As I lie here cursing the eternal.

     I begin to drown in my longing for heaven's hope,

And I would be content to quickly burn in hell's inferno.

     I rust upon this rust, my body bloats,

Mind’s want upon want to be a mortal.

     There is something that I am supposed to do.

Some way my body and soul to free.

     Something humanly, personally true,

But the essence, the what, escapes me.

(I wrote this as an angsty 15-year old.  I like to think I've figured it out since then, at least that lying around doesn't resolve anything.  But it may just take a whole life to answer the real question.)