Broken Walls Crumble

I live in two states.  One black and dark, the other scary and vast.  When I grow up I want to be even.  No slipping or falling, no soaring and crashing.  Last night I wrote fast and hard, breaking two pencils.  I scribed my thoughts straight from the vein.  Broken walls crumble and I push to climb over them.  A hand reaches out, grabbing my ankle.  Falling, I am waiting for you to catch me.  I throw out a lifeline, throwing it out to boomerang, waiting for it to come back to me.  The trees close in, ghastly and crooked.  Eyes closed, hands covering my face, and I anticipate what never comes.