With my two hands I've been working,
Creating blisters and sore,
Contracting each muscle,
Down to each core.

The simple work that needs power and strength,
Where your psyche and physique are combined to extend.

With my two hands I've been reading,
Trying to grasp,
On each word in each booklet,
To the profundity it has.

Absorbing and digesting each paper till the end,
Creating a thick net of neurons,
So the mind can comprehend.

The fascination it holds, is with both tasks well spent,
Exhaustion but fulfillment can result in the end.

With my two hands I've been trying,
To align myself straighter,
To the urge in me to think,
And the urge in me to labour.

The combination it seems,
Is the way out.
The combination it seems,
Is what leaves me no doubt.

Long for a pure existence.
Safe inside the comfort -
Of my own mind.
Contemplating this idea
Of throwing it all away.
Head for the hills,
           for the mountain peaks,
             for the coast.

Content of my wallet is fitting-
No paper,
No value to the plastic.
So, whats the point?
Working towards working towards dying.
**** all that, I'm out.
You cant buy clarity,
At least I dont think you can.

Grew up in the country.
God I miss the birds.
All the birds around here look sick.
I think it's from eating so much fast food.
Miss the stars too.
Miles and miles, stretching -
Pin-points of untouched hope.
Thats gotta be pure, to think -
That star is a part of everything
And everything a part of it.