when I am 29

Fitzgerald so inspiringly said
in a litter to his daughter
not to worry about failure
if it isn't due to her own doing.
Fitzgerald was poor
Fitzgerald did badly
really badly in school
and no one thought much of him.
then he wrote
"this side of paradise"
and everyone turned around to take a look
I sit in the stifling presence of words
and ideas
small and entached
words and letters that leap for unconcrete greatness
and fall every time
I have home works I dont do
and test I fail at
and teachers that look at me and tell me
how I am waisting my mind
how playful I am
and I have no possible proof
that my mind is working all the while
that I lose sleep and headaches rain upon me
that I forget to close doors
and feed the cat
not because
I let my mind at ease
but because
it is so entangled in what is and what might be
that the now is unseen.
and whatever half baked dream I may have had
at 16
now looks at me and begs to be let free.
up until F. scott fitzgerald
was around 29
his mind was seen as an entity that
much like mine had the deathly color of walls
and trashcans
nothing laughable
but unapplaudable.
then he let all the rummage logic
and rattled fantasies
fall into papers
into other peoples stories and in instants
people said he was a genius.
what fear I live to fertilize and grow is
that at 29
I will remember
to feed the cat
and forget to write