I want to change my name, and run away to a deserted island,
Cry myself to sleep, then sleep for an eternity.

I want to scream,
But I can't.

I want to just blink,
And things be different.

I want to feel in control of my life,
Independent.

I want an unlimited supply of fuel,
To travel across the country.

But it doesn't matter what I want,
Because life is what it is.

Conform. Conform. Conform.

I have to stop feeling,
Stop wanting,
Stop caring,
Stop having my own thoughts.

Otherwise,
I'll be eaten alive,
From the inside out.

No, no, no, no.
Yeah, maybe.

Okay, but why?
Because it is what it is.

Is it, though?
Yeah, maybe.

But what if it's the opposite?
No, no.
Well, maybe.

I think it is.
No. It can't be.

Okay, but why?
Because it is what it is.

But what is it?
It's that thing.

Can you explain?
Yeah, maybe.

Okay.
It's that thing.

Go on.
That everyone has.

What does everyone have?
The same thing, but different.

How can it be both same and different?
Because it is what it is.

Keep going.
Everybody feels it.
Feels what?

The thing.
What is the thing?

The thing is whatever you think it is.

There is a civil war going on inside.
It seems to be painfully infinite.
It is full of self-hatred, loathing.
It is confusing, chaotic.
You want to cry, you cannot.
It is out of control.
It makes you angry.
What can you do,
but nothing?
*******.
Why?

Locked in an
insane
            asylum
they are called crazy by all.
Sitting, sitting, staring;
Ranting about aliens,
watching the toddler
    float, floating
in the air in front of them.
On a schedule,
    tick, tick, ring
goes the bell.

They believe what
       you
or I
will not.
They see the world
the way we
       never
will.
"You're delusional,
up is up, not
       umop
Wrong is wrong,
       not write."

But what if,
not impossibly,
for the
             better,
not him
or her is delusional,
but
       you
or I?

I tried..
You failed.
At least I won't regret..
They rejected you.
I can try again..
You'll lose again.
Some people do better..
You're not that special.
But maybe..*
No.

Do you ever feel frustrated?

I'm overcome with a million words
                                                                ­that I know I'll never say.

Time stops around me,
But my brain is  a l i v e.

Thoughts gather,                
                               and 
                                              jmup 
                                                  ­               aornud
Until I can't make sense of what I'm feeling.
E v e r y t h i n g  becomes me.
I'm a deep, wide river
                                dried up in the sun.
Somehow barren,
                              yet
                              ­        drowning.


I'm walking along this road,
                                                     not going anywhere.

I'm living each day of the year,
But it's routine, copied,
                                            routine, copied,
                                                         ­                   routine, copied

The same    t i c k,    
                                    t o c k,    
                     t i c k,  
                                    t o c k,

Until I can't make sense,
                                          Of where I'm going.

I am nowhere.

I'm spinning in every direction,

Standing on top of the world.
                                                      
                                                                ­                L O S T

But here
All the same.

The old tend to say,
That we're the ones to blame.
The Forgotten Generation.

I ask,
How can we be blamed,
When they themselves made the choices?

None of us had yet the voices to raise!
So how can they claim,
That we are to blame?

For the first time in American history,
We may not make the climb.
Our futures may get worse,
Not as in the past.

Stuck in a moving stream,
We have no ideals to last.
We have no original thoughts to think!
And yet,
We continue to be expected to Rise,
To Dream.

Maybe we'll look at life with a wink.
Maybe we do beat the challenge from the
    past.
Maybe The Forgotten becomes The
    Remembered.
Who knows?