This is not THE poem

 This is not THE poem,

    This is not a poem,

        This is not a drill.

Take this as an open letter, to you.

I hate to be the only one with the sense of urgency.

My blood is pumping with fear and excitement.

My hands are tied, yet my mind roams free.

The places of complete fear, 

The places of complete joy.

A spark's what I'm looking for.

Well, we have hundreds.

Everytime, I keep my mouth shut,

A piece of me dies inside.

I can tell you this;

The day is close.

I don't want to lose time anymore.

I can feel it in my bones, veins.

It's there.

About to give birth...

To a new kind of -something-

(I may look like a fool at the end -and that's what keeps me from coming clean- but as the days pass by, I feel like I frankly don't care anymore.) It's become more of a necessity to keep my mind at peace. I will still enjoy it, no matter how it unfolds, but what pains me is that here I am, feeling like 18 again on the brink of a potential shutdown or a wonderwall. Ah... I guess, unraveling the unknown is what keeps me alive after all.