do you know how many people are desperate
desperate to look young
to feel young

so don't just exist through your early years
you'll never make memories
you'll miss all the fun

All of the shining mad ones
With their heresies of reality
And other visions and other voices
Are not diminished
By the multitude of choices
That is their truth
Upon each waking day

They are woken by the howl
From beyond the first ear
And into the deeper mind
Where there is other language
And blinding colours of emotion
For madness has the purity of pain
That martyrs can only long for

                                           By Phil Roberts

A storm is rising up
in the south,
and it is softly singing,
singing,
singing my name.

I can hear its voice
in the wind
that whips through my hair
as I'm standing on
this mountaintop.

I can feel it in
the raindrops that
hit my bare shoulders,
not hard enough
to sting,
gentle enough to caress.

The wind and the rain
and the storm are
singing my name.
The grass is bowing
before me, honoring
those who stand upon
the mountaintops
in full wrath of the storm.

And so, before the wrath
of the storm in the south,
I stand, the master
of my own soul first,
then the master of
everything around me.

If I am the master of myself,
then how can the wind and
the trees and the storm not
know my name?

She stared at the six little pills in her hand

one to be skinny
one to be pretty
one to be smart
one to be funny
one to be happy
one to be perfect.

She took them one by one,
feeling them slip down her throat.

at last, she finally felt
skinny
pretty
smart
funny
happy
perfect.

little did she know,
none of these things mattered anymore
for these things she once wanted
now were the things that killed her.