Coping

My self scrambles to the neck of the bottle
only to slide again down to the bottom.
Seemingly, screamingly, I survive.
A stay of execution. Damn, again.
Long lifelines are a blessing for other people.

Inside me's a person dying to live.
Tenaciously clinging like a butterfly
to a flimsy weed, oblivious to the breeze too strong.

Inside me's a person dying to be reckless.
A race car driver. Someone who likes to hang glide.
None of this in by midnight, or
turn into a pumpkin stuff.

Inside me's a person not afraid to live
who'd climb all the mountains and
dance in the starlight with a tall, handsome stranger.
If only I would let her.

But I'm the sensible one
Home early by the fire,
alone, with a good book reading about others
who are doing what I'd like to be.

Escaping is not part of the game plan,
so, I guess I'll just like it,
because lumping it would be lumping me and
I'm sore enough as it is.