i have a habit of falling into wells
because my mind wanders to dark places;
i have a habit of stumbling into caves
because my eyes tend toward black spaces;
but i climb out

every.

single.

time.

my arms are strong and i carry rope
my legs have grown large and i wear spikes
i have developed these tools
to pull myself back to open air
time and time and time again;
even now my written words
are fingers grasping handholds
pulling me every upward
to the places i need to be
where the wind blows strong against my flesh
where the light warms me through and through
and i can remember with powerful force
who i am –

a man who can carry himself on his own back
a man who can take the punches from any attack
a man who is not the same
as once he was in days gone by
a man worthy of the name,
a man who is learning to fly.