Every morning, I lie awake. 
A blaring alarm is all it takes
for me to want to hit the brakes 
to bend and break under the pressures of 
teenage darwinism. 

Every morning, I lift my head
from hours of reclusion in a twin-sized bed.
My dreams and peace now lie in shreds.
I wonder if my breath is being led into battle
if the day might prove to be too much.

The fear isn't usually misguided
but I guess you could call it a bit short-sighted
because my fears of eating lunch alone 
will battle the ones of building a home.

The home that I've planned since I was 6 and mapped 
with a staircase slide and tons of traps
to keep away the bad guys in black ski masks
when they try to hurt my imaginary family.

It'll have a bridge from the balcony to a tall treehouse
built on an oak way taller than my teenage doubt
constructed around girls who didn't care about who I was
and social constructs of high school love.

I'll wake up every day to the center of my world
orbiting cyclical sleep with her eyes shut gently
deviant strands of hair cascading across tired features
like a waterfall from a shallow pool.

I'll wake up every day next to a woman I haven't yet met
with kids I don't yet have
and to treehouses that haven't been built.

every morning I lie awake.
entertaining my thoughts is all it takes
to pull myself out of wrinkling sheets
and put my weight onto tired feet.

I wake up every morning
and conquer sleep
because I guess the thought is all I need,
I wake up every day in hopes that one day I'll have a reason. 

and that's enough.