Small Words.

Is this where I wanted to be,
barely living, before twenty-three?
Mind has changed like a valley
to a mountain range,
but still I find the courage hard
to dig up on these restless days.

Maybe it's the pessimism becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Maybe it's just an utter lack of useful sleep.
My bloodshot eyes can attest.

I've watched the shadows lengthen as the sun sets over five-thousand times,
and I still don't see much difference between the early morning and night skies.
Some say that wisdom comes with age, but I liked it better when I thought I had everything figured out.
I'm no wiser these days than I was when I was barely old enough to define the word drought.

A man thinking and writing in metaphors is just one more useless victim:
hoping to change the world through a computer screen, or hoping that someone can finally fix him.
Some days I feel as if I'm that night sky,
something I know is different from morning;
but in appearance, all that's different
is the direction the sun is moving.
So really they are no more different
than any other dichotomous relationship;
because polarity is strength through magnetism,
no matter what way one defines it.

But the real question I find myself asking is whether,
in this metaphor,
the sun is rising,
or setting.
The sky looks the same, either way.