I was born of blessed miracles and shameful mistakes,

Though from both come beautiful consequences.

I was born of all the converging rivers of death,

All the lost communing in my heart if only to give me life.   

I was born of the icy tears of God,

As he swallowed the sun, and made dark the world.

And of all things, be that good or bad,

I was born to speak. . .

I was raised by blood and work and freedom;

          All the liberties but burdens of men.

I was raised by a sun caged in night,

          Still mesmerizing in its struggle, as I seek to be.

I was raised by the light of a television,

           And all the glories of media

And of all things, be that good or bad,

           I was raised to be silenced. . .

I grew into the wonders of dystopia, the beauties of dysmorphia,

           Till they fit perfectly, as all must be perfect.

I grew into this world of prolonged naivety,

       Yet became a regular at its black market of innocence.

I grew into this world with only comic books to guide me,

        To teach me of the unbreakable disillusion of good versus evil.

But of all things, be that good or bad,

         I grew into this world by becoming. . .

I became wise in my youth,

       Though knowing I was only to lose such knowledge with the tides of time.   

I became perfect in the slow weathering of age,

      Though knowing said perfection would swiftly fade.

I became sane by embracing my inanities,

        Though knowing my mentality would overcome me gradually in the years to come.

But of all things, be that good or bad,

          I grew up. . .

So now I sit, at the mercy of insomnia,

        Watching the darkness slowly cede to light

So now I sit, drinking in the joys of immaturity

         Devouring the perils of youth

Balancing precariously, wonderfully

         On the edge of immortality . . .