Come on Bartender, won't you be more tender?

Am I a prisoner to instincts, or am I destined to live free and detattched as boats to a dock? The future seems a long ways away, and yet its looming over my head. As I sit in school, recoiling in the midst of high pitched squabblings and truly archaic faces, I spurn the sudden urge to grab my bag and books and tear out of those absurdly blue double doors, skiv off my lessons, and run through the streets, tearing my clothes and running, screaming, kicking, and dancing out of sight. Out into the streets, mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, destined never to yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles, exploding like spiders across the stars. And in the clouds, see the blue centerlight pop and a light so warm and brilliant, until it comes chasing after me. Is that abnormal? Well other than that, I've got nothing to say, I've got nothing to give.