And I know that what we feel
We become

And what I write
Is often better off undone

But I can tell myself stories
Of how to feel and be
And my blood will carry them
And my heart won't stay on my sleeve
It moves as it beats

And the words won't stay on the page
If they don't have a heart to stay
Or the honesty that comes with rage

Maybe my pen will run dry
Or my brain will cease to try

And show me a million twinkle lights
That dance a most beautiful lie
Right behind my eyes

And I will lose my will to speak
If I can't write what I think
Well I'll still have stories that need
To breathe so I'll do the next best thing
I'll convince my fingers to bleed
And use my stories for ink

I have expanded through one million dimensions and still I remain flat.
Paper walls surrender my paper heart to the words that erase themselves with age.

If there is meaning I find it meaningless unless you got it right in one guess.
Can you feel blood in my lost chest as it circulates? Maybe that's a mistake.

Do dead men tell no tales or maybe they spin them lacking air to rattle through ragged dead lungs still pink yet misunderstood? Dust that settles behind twinkling stars lets me down above this silent neighborhood.

I think we all grow up to be pirates, Y'know the kind that the Pan hates?
Betraying our childhood dreams and aspirations for backgreens and exasperations.

If this ship is sinking I want to be the anchor, watch it all crash down in slow motion, while it buries me at the bottom of your endless ocean.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock have ceased their tocks.

Cover to cover I think I have found another darling. Can this tale continue to spin while the world above changes page by page?