When we look back
there is nothing but blotches

A faded remnants of the
brown-eyed school attendants.
Uprooted like floating log houses.
Convergent whims of the ******* children.

I'll be sure to take you down with me.
Down deep into the cellar.

Gaging your spot in this world with acid-burning insides.
      
                      A hazy head.
                      A faded sense of everything.
                      It seems that this isn't working.
                      You feel no passion;
                                       that's on you.
                      There's something that you ought to do but that thing won't
                       stop the burning.                                      
                  ­    Admittance won't clear the haze.
                      Action won't bring you closer to what's (at least) functional

                      Let's not talk about realities for a minute...