I feel like a folded symbol,
inside the chipped-cherry boxcar
that is my damp, June mind.

A fetus seizing in the womb,
hooked up like a cheap monitor.
A foreign strandedness, wrapped
by a boa of dark country back roads
and sterile air skipping across grass.

If I stop, If I sleep
the sweat seeps from my pores
like a sterling grey squad,
oxidizing in the fog,
swimming around headspace,
guns melting with claymation cheeks,
howls into the night, darling deadbirds.

I am now happy and remember
only other happy memories.
Over a decade of depression
and now this.

I feel unfinished, unwanted
by the quickness of life.
I feel like a grain
caught in a gust so swift,
I may never adjust.

I, the empty-headed boy,
causing jet-black glass
to appear on sand,
to remove my footprints,
and incase them, phantoms.

The world is full of stereotypes, not that all are bad
I don't agree with them, a person is a person not a type
but their's a saying about writers, writers are addicts
drugs, alcohol, gambling. What's your addiction?

Those who choose to write, those with the calling
we're said to be depressed, we use addictions as a way to escape
from the clutches of a world we can only change in our writing.

As a writer, covering these stereotypes seems like a course in myself
I've been depressed, I've gambled, I wish to change the world.
A stereotype or just a person living in the 21st century.

To cast a shadow, you gotta walk in the sun
but I sure ain't walkin' - I'm on the run
To get through tomorrow, you gotta live through today
But I sure ain't livin' - I'm fading away

But that's o.k.
That's o.k.
I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive

To find your happiness, you must first be free
But I sure ain't happy - 'cause I sure ain't free

I ain't free
I ain't free
But I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive

Too many miles separate me from my past
Too many years I've spent wandering
Too many days I sit and I look into my glass
And my past comes slowly thundering

I once loved one woman unconditionally
Planned to romance her endlessly

She left me
She left me
But I'm alive, I'm alive

Yeah, I'm still alive
I'm alive
I'm alive

i used to pray once
when i believed in winged men
and life after death

miniature casket, hearts full of regret

boiling hatred
rises from the depths of me
directed at you

So tell me a story!!
where moon died every night to let the sun shine or otherwise around.
where stars chose to be at thousand miles away from moon just to make it look bigger and brighter;
where moon, stars, sky made a perfect picture while appearing together but never quite met each other, hugged each other;
where a mother left all her dreams, comforts and happiness for sake of transforming a fetus in to human;
where a girl got piggy back ride from a man who is a **** to the world but eye candy to her daughter;
where a boy and girl are best friends and secretly love each other but never confess because that would ruin everything that they have. They would rather end up marrying with other person than get married together for they know that the only way to love someone is from a distance;
where last piece of cake was saved for sibling who would come after a week, every time with the fridge door opening an urge to eat was gushed and turned down by the immense love for that sister;
where rather than pulling out a chair, a boy gave up the chair for a girl;
where best friends didn’t hooked up daily, not even months but remained best friends any ways;
where two peoples loved each others’ souls more than their bodies, made love with each other’s minds rather than bare bodies, admired each others’ books more than looks, looked each other deeply when all messed up; where nakedness existed in every word uttered, raw in its existence yet honest in the essence.
where girl worked hard not to get a perfect body or wealthy husband but to get her dreams. That she liked her books more than the dresses in wardrobe that she likes to hang out with guys having profuse knowledge than money! That she liked to make friends not to get away with loneliness but to enhance her personality;
where simple definitions, gestures and feelings in life have not turned in to philosophies but realities
Tell me a story that is a simple instance, yet rare in existence.