there's some change scattered on my dresser
i don't remember when i put it there.
their ***** faces just look up or down.
their voices muffled or aloud.
maybe they talk about me and how linted my pockets were
or how odd my room is decorated.
i wonder if the presidents talk about
the deeds they've done.
if they scoff at the world
and what it has become.
i think i can hear them asking if it's oak,
"yep, its oak fellas".
they're asking where Kennedy went
and if anyones seen Sacagawea,
or Eisenhower,
or Ms. Anthony recently.
"not since that toll booth on the parkway" says Washington.
they shouted in outrage to each other,
that Americans are tolled to use the roads they pay for.
i was tired of hearing their agreeable talk
so i put them back into my pocket,
where the lint of my ***** jeans
would quiet their truthful words.

charcoal lines define her face,
personal oils upon finger's tips
guide and blend her shape.
her highlights remain untouched
pure as paper, so smooth yet so rough.
she pulls away what she desires.
braised, there is no escape from her textured weight.
chiaroscuro female formations,
she hides her parts within the light.
solid, flakey, waiting for her fixative
tiny pieces may slip away
as broken memories of dark,
but chiaroscuro she was.

gimme your honey that drips with viscosity
from a well crafted wooden spoon
slowly and sweetly
i'll let you cover my body like a tropical shower
and lick myself clean
like the dog that i am.

i was talking with this man who told me,
"when i have a drink, i meet a man that wants another drink".
soon my room was filled with
thirsty men that looked like me,
because i pride myself on being
a good host.

part of the universe
even before life began on earth
complex chemicals reproducing themselves over billions of lies.
between biological sciences and
the laws of matter and energy
chemical processes are within us.
when our bodies move,
we give muscles the energy that is taken.
many species of the animal world
defend themselves to **** their prey.
modern methods led to greater understanding
greater identity
color, taste, smells of flowers and fruit.

my hands are stained with signs of turmeric, fading yellow orange
my nose is filled with tickles of aromatic roots, ***** fibrous tubes
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

my skin is inked from colorful dyes, as symbols of my truth
my face is freckled from the summer sun, as symbols of my youth
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

my bones and joints, at varying places, ache
my brain and mind, at varying times, pang
but these don't represent anything but, some signs of life.

my heart has known each side of our endless tragedy
my love has discovered our infinite acts in jest
and these things don't represent anything but, some signs of life.

i'm aware of my insignificance, in my limited existence
i'm aware that that can change, as easily as it cannot
but i don't represent anything, except my experience of life.

i've come close to knowing death, more times than i'd like to count
i've come close to knowing love, more times than i'd like to count
but these don't represent anything, except some signs of life.

i've met grace and kindness in the eyes of the forgotten
i've met hate and insecurities in the faces of those with influence
but i know they don't represent anything more, than some signs of life

i know that nothing is exclusive or ultimately controlled
i know that people are stones being smoothed until they reach  round
and i know this represents nothing more, than some signs of life

i wonder deeply about the state, of our humans being.
i wonder deeply how far we've secluded ourselves from each other
and i know, sadly, this represents nothing more, than some signs of life

but i know we are that so called stone, waiting to be round.
cut from sharp abstract forms, drifting down the riverbed,
washed over loquacious time, smoothed of our shearing sides

but as long as there are signs of life
imbalance will sway our ways, time will be like running water,
endlessly working to smooth our shearing sides.

and this, as i think i know it, are the signs of life.
and this, as i know it, will change. hopelessly smoothed.
and this represents nothing more, just experience. not life.

yeah, i'm drinking you in.
the moonlit sky of nighttime gradation,
atmospheric blue to reflected white,
I can't help but remember our time
and that drive we took through the countryside.
memories replay inside my head
like a lonely cinema, screening avant-garde films,
but still the bills get paid, even when things are quiet.

I said I love you but my knowledge was elementary
i do love you still but only because no one loves me like you

yeah, we lived in sin.
lazy Sunday mornings were for laying skin-to-skin
with no intention of changing that fact
no desire to part carnal bliss
our rest was wicked and yet so vivid
our sweat was sweet and so humid
our days were bright and bountiful
but our appetites were different

there's a light that shone within the forest
and somehow between that light and the moon above

i entered a cinema, and i'm the only one.

round and hot to the touch
a distant color
ribbed with texture
rich in tongues

the seeds abundant and pronounced
safety stored within
the mushy membrane
hollowed from beyond

discarded for fun
the columbian pumpkin comes undone

i don't know about love at first sight
but i know when two people
find themselves attracted to each other
and feel compelled to act

Where does it go?
When we forget this rule we call a comma.
Does it appear in your mind as you're reading my words?
Does it appear in mine when hearing read aloud?
Where does it go?
They tell us in school it's intended to create pause.
That it resides in the knots of two ideas
It gives a boost to introduce new ideas
It allows the addition of unnecessary ideas.
And separates excessive adjectives.
But if my words are clear and the ideas are clearer
Why do we need this pretentious afterthought?
To prove that I am educated?
That I understand grammar and syntax?
That rules of punctuation rule?
That English is championed?
That two ideas are related?
I refuse that. I refute you.
If you are intelligent enough to know this thing called a comma
It's fair to assume you understand context
Its fair to assume you are well read

Do not send me to that place you have created for comrades in forgotten commas.
Do not stick your nose up in my direction when words ring clear but grammar and punctuation lack.
Or critique writing with your "useful knowledge"
I will use it when it's power is needed.

****, Off

i first considered suicide when i was 12
life didn't really get better afterwards
i fell asleep crying years before as a young child
because i couldn't be convinced
that my parents loved me.
literally, i said to their faces, sobbing,
that they didn't love me.
and their response was not sugar for an ant
i didn't believe their words
i spoke with certainty
i cried with surety.
so that emotion is ****** from the beginning.

for a few years, the idea of death didn't exist.
life was too terrible,
confusing,
abusive.
verbally, physically, sexually,
i couldn't entertain the thought.
my life got worse
until it felt better
a mask had formed.
some kind of shell.
hollow, but still of some substance.

before turning twenty, death returned.
i didn't want to **** myself
i just wish i had never existed.
i found that distinction intriguing
although impossible, it relaxed my nervous mind.
then it happened,
i thought i found love.
i felt welcomed.
i felt accepted.
i felt appreciated.
but i never knew love
so what i thought i found
was actually just a person being a person
to another person.

my mind twisted into improbable knots
my heart was attempting to untie them.

life went on.
up and down.
lows got lower, until the valley raised
sunshine glowed brighter, until the clouds came.
i drank, alone.
even at parties
i drank alone.
somehow, loosing control felt right
it felt like chaos
if felt like the theme of my life
it felt like natural order
and i loved it.

i traveled
i drank
i worked
i drank
i studied
i drank.

at some point,
death became appealing again
i was on the other side of the world
riding a motorcycle through a distant countryside
one morning in December i said to myself
"i could die today, and that would be ok"
wouldn't you know it, just a few hours later
two bloodied gashes needing a number of stitches
fractured face in multiple places, a broken wrist.
i didn't die.
i just ended my expanding experience.
i don't remember what happened.
truly
the last thing i remember was seeing a tree
lost in the middle of a lake, a reservoir.
theres some significant symbolism, i think.
the doctors said there weren't signs trauma
no serious or minor concussion
my friends told me it looked like i was seizing
or that i had fainted
i just find it really odd that those would all come together
so conveniently.

time continued, life did too, even though i was uninvolved.
a conscientious objector.
life got better, or at least felt better
then it got worse
and the cycle continued.
i tried to love, i really tried,
my past was shared with a loving woman
and she held it against me
as if it was my fault.
so i drank,
i drank, found pills,
saw the morning rise covered in hot ash.
and knew i should be dead.

it got better for a while after,
until once again

death and i were talking.
he told me he's set a place for me at his table
the food is warm and
his door is always open.
i just have to take off my shoes at the welcome mat.
i made sure to tell him how kind his offer was
but my soles aren't run down just yet
i still have a few more miles left
somehow, i don't think it matters
we're all killing ourselves by living
so why not die trying.

Deep in Mangroves of Calusa
Your eyes became arrows of the natives
We made whirlpools with the wind
Chasing sea cows for their breath.

Your thighs felt like my bounty
The curve of your spine was ethereal
In cut off jean shorts, wet from dripping paddles,
Each drop teased in me a feast for carnal cravings.

Your memory wears a dress of palms,
Resting beneath your delicate waist
Your face looks like porcelain beneath
My gifted crown of magnolia and jasmine

I can feel the rain that's filled with sunshine
When you speak, I hear सौन्दर्यलहरी.
Slowly, surely, your words and eyes
Send vibrations like पार्वती*.

I surrendered to your storm
I laid **** and prayed to be spared
I could not contain your tremendous terror
I could only surrender and offer my obsessive praise

There's an island in Calusa that rests beneath our stars
Where your quiver remains full with the bluest of arrows
I still can feel your words as Waves of Beauty
I still can taste your skin of Praline and Coconut

My hunger for your thighs and spine of sweeping curves
Did not die when your tropical storm had passed
Or when your native arrows dissolved within my chest,
I am starving, a castaway, without your love storm near.

past summers sunset, before the witching hour
wheels beneath my feet spun forward
through this seasons ending blue
flashing lights of LED projected to and fro
dancing hues of white sent to indicate
another traveler along this path
from afar thats all you were
a light shaking to a fro, dancing in the blur

slowly we came within that distance on communal paths
that only frequent users come to know, that distance
where some form of greeting, some sign of acknowledgement,
i believe, is required for those in such a sharing peaceful place.

my gears were turning and my mouth opened to say "good evening to you"
just around that same time, the two of you said "hello" and "how are you"

suddenly, with the sound of the loving voices,
i was tremendously thrown into the memories of easier times
when i looked to you for love and affection
when i hoped to hear you with regularity
back when i was confused and disturbed with no compass to guide my sails and no wind but for what was in my lungs

i knew those voices once
i knew their faces too
they were gods to me
and now, just two voices i heard
while passing on a blue summers eve

the sun sets over London
where the sky is clear
and experiences are new.

time has shifted, GMT +1.
ahead of me,
a future i'm patient to know.

aglow in electric light
you stood before me;
ahead, a future i long to know.

farewell to distance and foreign tongues
fuel spent and money burned
i have missed you dearly
but you are westward bound
i anticipate your arrival
and watch for you
as though you were my hurricane

i can feel the ocean
and how it keeps
you from me;

make me into water.

so i may evaporate like mist in the august sun,
rising high above our land,
swiftly passing over the active Atlantic ,

to wherever it is you are.

so i may form again
above a Parisian sky
and fall onto your comely lips and say

"j'ai besoin de toi plus près que ça"

the sun rose, days before September and
colored the sky in pure pastels,
shaded smooth, clean of imperfection.

i dreamed these colors with you in my arms
while the mist of crashing waves
slightly glistened our sun kissed skin.

i don't mind to dream these things
i enjoy their thoughts
but i don't want you to be a dream for me

i see dead fish walking
no i'm not on drugs
but that would make me feel better
about the people i see.

empty faces, beaten bodies
wandering for happiness
hoping to fill the hole
they will one day lay within.

i have nothing but i have everything
and that is all i'll ever need.
go ahead, rot away in nauseous saunters of distress
i choose to swim, until the day i am eaten.

when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i become sick.
when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i hear a lie.
when someone says, "happiness is a choice",
i hear indifference and apathy.
when someone says to me, "happiness is a choice",
i hear someone robbing me of emotion.
i hear someone spreading ignorance.
when i hear someone say, "happiness is a choice"
i see a wagging finger in my face,
scolding me for not choosing to see
the sacred choice through their eyes.
for not believing where they say happiness resides.
when i hear someone say, "happiness is a choice",
i hear some hollow hashtag, quoted by some tv celebrity or
some quote you'd read that is
attached to some nifty quasi transcendental graphic,
appropriated from an eastern philosophy
made for western eyes.
i feel no substance when someone says to me,
"happiness is a choice".
my mind becomes filled with judgement
of you and your life
when you say to me,
"happiness is a choice".

when someone says to me that "happiness is a choice",
i feel the need to write something like this.

happiness can be felt
but you will not feel it forever.
sadness can be felt,
but you will not feel it forever.
if you feel no regret in life,
i will call you pathetic
if you only choose to be happy,
i will call you mad.

but and however

if you choose to love,
you will be all things.
if you choose to love,
you will feel the world and all it has to offer.
sometimes you will be happy  because  love brought you there
sometimes you will be sad  but  love brought you there
sometimes you will be excited and  love brought you there
sometimes you will be angry but  love brought you there
whatever emotion you feel, consequently,
will be a product of and from love
every choice you make
will be from love

so

when you say to me, "happiness is a choice",
do not say those words in passing
or use them as a phrase
make sure to say them with your love
and be happy that you can

i'm a 30 year old male
that can't watch Forest Gump
without crying at least a dozen times.

i'm a sibling of 5
that only sees or speaks to
my siblings on holidays or family events.

i have no formal secondary degree
with stamp of approval
or specification in a field of study.

i know that cigarettes will **** me
the sun will do the same
but i enjoy those things.

i'm a 30 year old male
with no prospects of a life
or any idea of how to create one.

i only know, i am alive.

i can't stand the behavior of most people
but i love everyone, and try to forgive
because i know not their demons

i hate that i hate.
i hate that i am not as forgiving
with myself with the life that i've lived.

i think of what my life could be
outside of my life that is
and i lift away in dreams

i think of killing myself while addressing
daily responsibilities.  
moving one load of laundry to the dryer
becomes "this belt feels stressful and the buckle is harsh
upon my adams apple"

but cold nickel and leather remind me of such contrast
so cold. so warm.

i'm a 30 year old man, and i realize that age is only
significant to those that have not done so.
but i still cry at odd moments.

i'm a sibling of 5 that feels no love.
at christmas, buys the best most poignant gifts
but still forgets birthdays

i'm educated in what matters
which means it doesn't pay
and i love how poor i am.

i'm a 30 year old man.
broke. single. nearly homeless.
and i have nothing but love.

i only know, that i'm alive.

you lied to me while in your heels
when you met me at my eyes.
but you were beautiful,
and i believed every word.

i know why i'm a drunk
i know why i drink
that first drink always equalizes
sets the world right
the next two, five, or eight
is the chase

towards feeling good.
towards feeling happy.
towards feeling high.

which is why i hate love;
it's like drinking every day; all day.
hoping to never feel the hangover.

it takes work
it's hard
it's evolution in real time.

but i know if i drink
i can just drink
and be fine.

love is not guaranteed.
especially not if you drink.

Sitting still in disbelief can lay
the world in colorful ash
which our eyes are not
meant to see.

There’s effort in your exhale.
It intensely speaks for you,
as if you cannot express in words
what it is you feel.
It’s shameful. It’s childish.
its wasted energy.
The effort behind the steam released
coming from your lungs
is as energetic as the words
that are tumbling around inside of you.
Why would you choose to confuse
through passive expression?
when the same amount of energy
would clear the skies like
a heavy summer rain.

If it is all energy created from within
and you are shameful for
the words your vessel contains,
could you not alter
the shape of and direction
to better influence the emotions exchanged?

like a plastic bag or paper receipt
i can only keep the idea of you for so long
the 30 day policy for returns will shortly expire
and past that point, the energy and headspace
your memory consumes
will slowly eat away at my abilities to adapt to an ever
changing environment and i don't like being left behind
baby, i like to do more than survive

but i know somewhere in the shell of a head i hold
is a gigabyte of your data with the strongest pathways
to pleasure and pain, smiles and rain, love and lust
somewhere i'll hide the key in hopes you'll one day return
and unlock this place i hold for you
but for now i require an external hard-drive to export my emotions
to keep me from loving you

hey harpist with the stringy fingers
pluck me some melody made of daydreams
serenade my sleepless soul into
an ethereal pool where bodies are not needed
let each note pronounce as though to
declare the highest of high with sunshine
emanating through the vibrations of blissful contact
ripple love my way as though it could be shaped
so that I may know rest in peace

just so that you know,
i can see your fear and insecurity.
when i do,
i lean in and whisper, "disagree".
because
you don't know yourself,
the way that i know me.

the more you think you know,
the more you think, "i know".

i could try to write and speak French like Wallace Stevens did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and live in Camden like Walt Whitman did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and beat my wife like Charles Bukowski did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and drink like Ernest Hemingway did, but it might not sound like me
i could write like anyone but i have to write for me
i can only write the things i feel
or experienced first hand
and if my written words sound like someone else you know
it might be because they felt it too
and wrote it down
because they had to
because i have to

my bed rests in my sisters old room
and some pictures of her friends remain.
my duvet is stitched from hands and machine
of the woman i forgot to love.

i can't even begin to describe the truth.

the sheets underneath were bought by
the girl that ****** me best
but the lady i love is no where to be found.
complex on complex on complex.

i can't even begin to pretend i'ts not true.

frog skin pickle with my
82% milk fat french croissant
"ribbit ribbit, mon croissant flakey?"
"Oui, et ma peau est en cuir du marais,
Et mes jambes ont le goût de poulet".

"le vert de mon visage cache bien dans l'herbe"
"Oui, Oui, parce que vous êtes un amphibie"
"What are you with such a souple, épluchée dorée?"
"Moi? Je suis le travail de mains amoureuses
I tear apart to feed your taste for metamorphosis."

Loudly, I hear them above the rest.
Through the windows of slender sand, which rests in another form, songs of primavera bounce around my head.
I never knew their range or talents of projection; so small and fragile are not the melodies of the small and fragile.

This moment of recognition moves me to adjust that which separates her song and I; to hear more clearly that which I forgot,
truth and beauty, peace and presence.
I feel the thaw of spring which melts so sweetly into the air, sagging with weight as it tenderly brushes the backside of my neck.

These things in successsion cause more than hesitation, they cause more than saintly admiration. My eyes become fixed upon something in the middle distance to avoid and restrict additional visual stimuli; to allow this focused moment a place to stay.
to sit in appreciation of the fresh-chilled air and music of our returning spring that sings in natural melodies for we.

cartoon confessional
*******, comical profession
my honesty is not your priority
my honesty is not worldly morality
you won't read this and feel anything.
you won't know me and change your life.
you'll hallucinate belonging,
you'll produce surreal existence of coded transponding

******* for real.

im drunk af and don't give af
continue to spoon yourself the morning grain
and laugh a mouthful of motherly milk
spill abreast your leather cushion
spill abreast your taste for plastic ****.
i could confess my most intimate secrets
and you'd declare fake news abound.
so *******, *******.

i'll spill my guts
sober as a bird
or
drunk as dirt is *****.
ill create cartoons cohesive to my creation
and **** the karma of cautionary tales
and scream ******* till i die.
because regardless of what i say
or how honestly i say it,
you will continue to **** yourself
and enjoy ******* those around you.

this is not a joke.
*******.
language is so much more than words.
don't read me with hopes for inspiration
don't read me for a glance of transpiration.
words are merely symbols of existence and understanding.
read what is written and you will understand
that we've been ****** since the first translation.

i can't translate my emotions into words.
i can try. but you will never know.
i can tell you why
but you will never grow.

love is lost and life is futile
but we'll argue over value
and we'll exit with arguments in our blood.
we are ****** and god is gone
gone with a capital G.
god is just the next best thing since apple sauce
and wonder bread in the morning.

accessibility.
everything is now an open door.
there are no more mountains to climb.
only doors to enter through to the summit.
effort has lost itself to the sale of experience.
character no longer grows.
there is no guiding truth that leads us with honor.
nobility.
humble is just a word. it too has lost its meaning.
consume, consume, consume.
everything has become a story,
available for purchase,
that before would rely on the most revered
characteristics an individual can posses.
they were in search of something.
they were not concerned of the destination.
they aimed to take the test of will.
at all cost.
money, reputation, life.
these mean nothing to the seekers.
they know the mainline to life.
and we, so trivial and banal in our empty definitions
believe we are amongst the greatest class.
have somehow earned through trial
the praise and regards of Gods and their Godly Friends.
we are peasants.
we are nothing, until we choose more.
more than human.
more than comfort.
more than familiar.
more than fearless.
more than me, me, me.
more than this biological soup.
more than purchased experience.

our greatest accomplishments have become
so much less than what they were before.
we killed them with a smile.
we are the filled and chanting seats within the Colosseum.
we are Brutus with the knife, behind the back of Caesar.
"give us blood for our desires".
we have killed all that i find meaningful.
here at HEPO, we too, are murderous peasants.

Do not be sold their means of control.
Revolt.
Seek the challenges which will **** you if you fail.
Pursue the opening in the forest, with no path to guide you fair.
Bruise and bleed for your trials, skin your knees until they are bare.
Starve from hunger, but not the physical kind.
The hunger of that peak which remains just out of reach
where if reached, will feed you with a feast of willful righteousness.
Godly effort.
Fail Unto Death.
Anything less will not suffice.

my memories are not papier mâché
wrapped around my face,
they are the masked collage
that i do not wear.

my thoughts are not a cohesive train
riding on my skin,
they are a parking lot
filled of empty bins.

my words are not a hammer made of sickles
i carry around with me,
they are a set of locks,
each letter is the key.

my hopes are not the mourning dove
perched and singing songs,
they are the future flight
on top of warmer winds.

my fears are not the passing night
when darkness reaches peak,
they are a fading day
before my sun is done.

my dreams are not the crashing tides
where sand and salty seas will meet,
they are the day
i stand and feel this
all beneath my feet.

my days are not eternity
feeding an endless mouth,
they are the ache of hunger
for the beautiful feast of life
i cannot live without.

Footsteps through some Atlantic sea foam
Backstrokes beyond the loudness of your megaphone
Saline eyes, salty borrowed lens
So cloudless above, appearing to me as some other days cosmic swim
Today, now, I'm in my water, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The water.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Searching barefoot in my forest of flaking birch
Soles in touch with my detritus, dying seasons Earth
My ears awaken my reptilian mind
So alive, in tune with Gaia's frequency
Today, now, I'm in my land, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The forest.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Draped in cloth with rubbered feet
Footsteps disappear under the noisy city
Puddles of an unknown origin
Sit for days, evaporate from tall reflective glass
Today, now, I do not see my land within this cosmic body.

"Oh
This is yours;
This concrete jungle.
You can keep it. I'll never want this for my own."

There's a slab of cracked concrete
Outside a doughnut shop on the corner where I stand
Something green has emerged from the break
And I know that she will win.
Eventually, she will truly win.

"Oh
This is not yours; Nothing here is.
I allowed your life, and I provide for all;
But I will take your life when I'm ready.
Regardless how you choose to have it."

ravenously crazy or stoicly crazy?
which do your prefer?
take your pick
because the answer is never wrong.

i tried to email my ego
an image on self awareness
but I couldn't locate a recipient
so the email wouldn't send.

you didn't want to swim, said the water was too cold.
so you dipped your toes in from the jetty.
you've spent too much time in the south
grew thin skin like those reptiles and warmed yourself in the sun.

I dove in knowing what this might mean
so I took off for the depths of emerald green
where I could barely make out your image
or see my feet treading beneath

symbolic in more ways than one
I didn't stay long for consideration of your chilling blood
you asked if I felt refreshed
even though you knew I was.

innuendos abound
we spoke strictly in subtext
until I asked for clarity
and that's when I found myself drowned

i want to hold that golden evening glow
that sits on shedding cornsilk
of budding cornstalks in a far off field
while we lay watching the sky
endlessly open our universe
and laugh until we die...

….I don't want that to happen soon,
I just want to do die with you forever.

I need a restart from the womb.
Fresh years to remember less awkward things.
I won't find my awareness when this happens
So I'm stuck here in this existence and need to find acceptance.
My past is on the other side and
I can be born each day, as long as I wake.

To tell you the truth i'm drowning,
Even though I was born in the sea.

I don't hear music like when I used to listen
It doesn't dance like wind on-top your skin
but when its toes begin to preen my mind becomes a hive
that speaks through communal action
where words find no ground to stand on
but float above the nest, patiently waiting to reside.

I ain't heavy but I carry weight
don't try to save me, i've learned to be alright in the  wake.

I can't ask sacrifice from the living;
Their duty to praise the passed.
Ask the dead to answer impossible prayers,
So why should the living aide the living?
Suffering is solely meant for those that suffer
Not thy loving neighbor, nor thy clan.

Watch me side step from the place you've set me
Now; try to meet me in my eyes, please.

Don't help me feel misused
Don't wash your fingers clean
As if I were unwanted and wasted glue
You said "I hope you know I'm stuck with you"
I promise I won't complain
I'll tell you how it is, but I swear to do it sweetly

Now watch me walk ahead
Praying to God you're not far behind.