We have
Too much confidence for competence,
Such deliberate disguises.
Our silly grins grimly thin.
We are the hollow men,
And insidious ideals appeal
In a dream stealing spiel with zeal.
No rest for a lost boy.
This is the way the world ends;
Not with a shout but a whisper

Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red
Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead.
A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet
He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet.
He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on
Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum.
He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark
He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark.
He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why,
And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs.
His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still,
Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.

Dear World,

Today is
   The day I
      Break down the walls.

Today is
   The day I
      Breathe it all in.

Today is
   The day I
      Open my heart.

Today is
   The day I
               LIVE.

For so long
I have barricaded myself
Behind the thickest of masks,
And now it is time
For it to fall

No longer a
Nameless face,
A lost human,
A waste of space

Today is
   The day I
      Learn to fly!

                                             -Boy*



Boy,

Today is
   The day I
      Break your heart in two.

Today is
   The day I
      Let reality suffocate you.

Today is
   The day I
     Close your mind.

Today is
   The day your aspirations
                                       DIE.

For I am
To harden your heart
I will leave you rejected
With no hope
Of ever belonging.
Draw the mask
Back over your face
This is not a place
For being yourself.

Today is
   The day I
      Permanently break your wings.

                                                               -World

my fingers are like matches

because everything I touch turns to ash.

I swear my intentions are golden

and my goals are pure.

but I can’t seem to keep from burning bridges

and speaking singed words.