Nothing like a tightly wound spring straining
To uncoil unpredictably without
Warning at inconvenient moments.
More like a top, spinning in defiance
Of old, tired men who claim to have proven
Perpetual motion ephemeral.
So, no, I will not earn any headlines
For random or deliberate killing;
No, I will not merit headlines at all.
I will be content to register years
In some database in a nowhere place
Where not a soul or program will witness
The terror that fuels my rite of passage:
The enduring fear of relaxation.