I follow the path of your memory
like the imprints of lines etched on my arm
after a deep sleep. However, your presence
never rests within my thoughts.

I never met a true prophet who made a million,
And I never met a parent chill enough to never
displicine their children.

But I shouldn't make a profit off the millions
of grown adults, acting like their children.

I had Biscuits,
she was my favourite little puppy.
Cute, fluffy, and brown.
And as I think of her while she's gone
while pulling the trees of nature,
the feeling of despair really barks up the wrong tree.
            I really, really miss that dog.

I'm really just a biscuit,
—that tiny spare wheel we all hide
in the back of our cars.
My closest to a ride, or die companion,
still spinning fresh on my mind.
And the only thing I could confess to
about feeling really, truly tired.
        ****, I really, really miss that tyre.

I had a biscuit,
this time it was really a girl.
And of course it's wrong of me to say,
but for the modern audience, "she was my biscuit."
I used to hold her so tight; I still wonder how
she never once crushed into pieces in my arms.
I guess she was that strong, stronger that whatever
strength of pride I could carry her from.
    Heck, the only girl I really, really loved.

I do miss the biscuits with extra cream
in between, like a life with a few extra
sweet moments, so we could get a good lick from.

   But I never was that big of a fan of biscuits in the first place.

It feels so great to be so grate,
especially as one with a shredded mind.
As I read red is the new blue to all my blues,
but as someone who often knows his creativity
leaks out of their head, with a ****** nose.
I'd still like to split the bill of paying for
my own well being,— do check the cheque.

And I might as well pay extra for all my dues
for a lifetime of all my do's, and change all
my ideas on top of my head, like those new hairdos.
But to whoever stares too close into my eyes, you may
slip and fall with the stairs leading to my mind.
As I'm one more trip to trip over another misstep;
like another thing that will always disappoint you.
I guess there's a lesson in those pains, that I can't
even make fun of on this straight and narrow,— saying
no to diss a point.

But if I fail too much, I hope I don't miss that sign
before I sign my life away to depression,
A depression deep as the sea bottom you'll never really see,
and typing out it's Crushing feeling with a capital C.
You can credit me for having a wet eye; the tears of
each time life tears out another hopeful page from
the story of my life.

—Life, is really as great as what you hope you read,
but I'd never really know on the nose,
so please do check for yourself.

As there's no due time for your dreams,
unless we're considering death, as the Mistress
who has to do what she has to do.
I know there must be a stair case to heaven,
but right now I pray for strength to live through
this hell with people's many evil stares.
But I'll say it in advance, "so sorry to anyone,
I didn't mean to disappoint you, again"

I still hope you can read the sign from whatever I
write, before I sign it in my blood, sweat and tears.
But you don't seem to see much, when you're
drowning in your thoughts,—its like a sea, much
before you write out the letter C to your Carelessness.

Of course I'd sound like I care less
for any of the tears in anyone's eyes,
But is it wrong of me to say I'm tired, "but I'm too
young to be tired," and I guess I'd be too wrong to
want to tear out that expression out of your mind.

         But anyways that's the story of my life.

There's a love that resembles a foolish quest,
her thoughts constantly occupying my mind.
I'm breathless, yearning for passionate kisses,
wearing love's badges proudly on my chest.

I never fought for love, but fought to be adored,
and the sound of their lips reveals wickedness soon.
As fears and great expectations intertwine,
the walls crumble in this butterfly-filled belly,
an anticipation that surpasses all others.

And it's the curse of desire that keeps me trapped,
a twisting sensation when she's not by my side.

As I gaze into their eyes,
I am confronted with the undeniable truth
— the devil does exist.

It lurks within the depths of their souls,
casting a shadow over their every action.
Their eyes, once windows to their innermost thoughts
and emotions, now reveal a darkness
that sends shivers down my spine.

It is a chilling reminder that evil walks among us,
disguised in human form.

One man's will; another man's want,
We all shoot our words with an offensive gun,
And chase the time like cowards who run.
The chorus of life; we all sing her song,
Speaking of the past in a present tongue.
The future of one man; another man won't want,
The chorus of life unveiled; we all sing her song.