Can I be considered a good leader if those that follow ultimately fail in my absence?

Is the artist only as good as the canvas upon which she brings her creations to life?

I suspect not.

Therefore I am a failure as my legacy is covered in the blemishes of the fallen. Viaducts down, Rome sacked as what once was great is now nothing more than tales told by those who choose to live in the past.

But I am young.

Thus I return to the scene of my crime, hastily departed, left reeling, a drunk short a drink and a sympathetic ear, and I begin anew.

Perhaps this time I will impart some wisdom to allow those that can to light their own path, so that this time when I depart they will stand resolute and face the coming dark with the certainty of knowledge, of awakened minds.

Wish me luck.

The human heart is very fragile indeed.
Yes it is capable of holding and exuding such fiery passions as to consume you whole,
Yet can it not be crushed underfoot with a wayward blow meant to push away rather than injure or the sweet kiss of fare thee well from the object of your eternal desire?

Love is not the monster that hides beneath your bed, rather under your sheets where you wistfully dream of your prince, your knight, the girl next door or the **** *******.

Love is the creature that hunts for your immortal soul not by night but rather captures and enraptures you in the brightness of day with a single smile and words that only you amongst the billions in this world were meant to hear.

Love is not the answer, it is the question in the truest sense which poets, songwriters and the daft have spent eternity trying to unravel, it is a puzzle without end for the missing pieces lie within us all and can only be found in another.

And the creator in all his glory housed such a curse as a gift within the most fragile of vessels yet we stand shocked witness each time our hearts break.

You don't look like I know you should; your clothes, your hair, your body and your accessories speak to a culture that I do not understand.
I'm not even sure I want to.

Before you cry hate realize that I am not speaking to the colour of your skin; pigment has zero relevance to the way you were raised, the friends you chose or who you are as you stand before me in this modern society.

The alien I find in you are the choices you've made, or rather the very few choices you've made as you've allowed the flavours of the masses to salt your very being, laying the foundation for the same row houses on each block, 'we' nothing more than automations that turn right, vote left and drive straight on into the witless death of 'our' meaningless life. Group hug.

I obviously am not talking about you; you read this poem and judge it unworthy or not and write your own birthing thoughts not yet authored, cutting yourself free from the tether of normality making the awakening of social consciousness possible.

Or perhaps I'm just another ******* on the train wearing awesome golf pants coming back from the game that takes more than it gives griping about life and those that don't live it or love it.

Your heart is the echo of your loneliness, it sets the practiced flow to your poetry and the undeniable sorrow of your prose.

Your unrequited love seeks out new partners with the deranged need of a ***** looking for the next score and with the same pathetic results.
Your crash between lovers' highs may lack the sour stink of the vagabond's putrid sweat yet the addict had the good grace to hide his broken soul behind doors, however flimsy;
You would rather celebrate your fractured heart, dressing your wounds with your words as the cheap ****** dresses her bruises with makeup and glitter.
She hates her john and dreams of a better way,
You idolize your ex and yearn for his or her return some day.

Yet I think we can all agree; drugs were the best thing to ever happen to the substance abuser...