The Lost Boy | Spoken Word Poetry


Once again I find myself on the rooftop,
sneaking a cigarette and staring out over this Neverland
with these secondhand thoughts. The smoke from my lips
could be mistaken for just another cloud in the sky or a cloud in my mind that I release with a sigh
out over these high-rises. Have I found myself in this city
or am I just another lost boy who refuses to grow up? I look down past my feet, down to the Shanghai streets
and think thirty stories high: From such great heights
do I trust myself to fly? After all these years
do I trust that my judgement is right, that I can live with my mistakes and faults or from such great heights would I simply fall? I’ve marched with the other Lost Boys
down the sidewalks hoping to shake our shadows
in the alleyways of our mainstream dreams, hoping to shed these material things
and un-find ourselves and unwind ourselves from the binds we ourselves felt compelled to weld because we heard society say we needed to man up,
we needed to face their reality. But instead
we got high on everything, got high on nothing, got high on each other’s tattooed skin
despite being told it was a sin. And what they didn’t know then is we had already forfeited the old gods,
burned the old books, dismissed the old hymns. And with Him
I spray painted my bible on the concrete walls and freed myself of the words
that hadn’t burned on my own tongue. And with Him
I deconstructed myself, brick by brick, and built myself back up –
the skyscrapers as inspiration. Or was it just cheap imitation of the limitations
of the tools I’ve been given? Now, alone on the the rooftop,
exhaling the last of the cigarette, my shadow’s been sewn back on, a silhouette, and I can hear regret faintly ticking
beneath the surface of the urban sea below me. Am I a lost boy or just another boy trying,
trying to fit in? Am I just another boy destined to forever wander
through the hazy promises of this Neverland?

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