Learn to not give a ****.
It'll get you a whole lot farther than actually caring about things.
When you care about someone, or something,
they're going to drag you down,
and you won't even realize you're drowning until it's too late.
It's because you won't be able to tell where the air is anymore,
up and down, side to side, are just random areas of blue.
Learn to say:
"**** it, I'll swim on"
because if you don't, those people, and those situations,
weave around your feet, and slowly work their way up,
until you're nothing but one of them.
A worthless, dragged down, corpse.

There are tracks on my arms,
There are tracks between my toes,
and some may be seen between slender fingers.
You see those odd little tracks on the outside,
was only the first footstep.
The rest are beneath the skin,
and have worked their way throughout all of my veins.
The footsteps of an evil unseen to the naked eye has touched my blood.
I may not see all of the footsteps,
but I'll always see the first one,
and I'll never be able to forget.

Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Delicate fables of ribbon and lace,
Tales of the quarry, the ****, the chase,
Longer than heaven and duller than hell--
Never you blame me, who cry my case:
"Poets alone should kiss and tell!"

Dumbly I hear what I never should know,
Gently I counsel of pride and of grace;
Into minutiae gayly they go,
Telling the name and the time and the place.
Cede them your silence and grant them space--
Who tenders an inch shall be ***** of an ell!
Sympathy's ever the boaster's brace;
Poets alone should kiss and tell.

Why am I tithed what I never did owe?
Choked with vicarious saffron and mace?
Weary my lids, and my fingers are slow--
Gentlemen, **** you, you've halted my pace.
Only the lads of the cursed race,
Only the knights of the desolate spell,
May point me the lines the blood-drops trace--
Poets alone should kiss and tell.



                   L'ENVOI

Prince or commoner, tenor or bass,
Painter or plumber or never-do-well,
Do me a favor and shut your face
Poets alone should kiss and tell.

It seems I spend most of my time with my head in the clouds,
Oh how I wish to be like them.
I wish to be careless, free, not a bound to anything, or anyone,
but no matter how high I get, my feet never leave the ground.
I am forever stuck, rising higher, but never actually leaving.
Like the roots on the ground have woven around my feet,
there's no actual way out, there never was, was there?

I know **** well that I **** at poetry,
but you see,
it's hard to type or even understand what I'm writing,
when the words are always so ******* blurry.
Or when they float off the paper as if the wind were carrying them off.
And sometimes the words turn something else all together.
A paragraph can turn into a monster.
Some give me a sort of paralysis, and I'll sit for hours, just reading it,
over, and over again.
Other's stare me in the face, causing my stomach to drop,
every single time.
I'm never satisfied with what I write.
Everything is usually right,
but there's a part of me that believes,
that words will never express what's going on inside my head.
Yet it's the only thing that even comes close to helping.

You can always run, but just know that you'll never, ever stop.
Once you begin to run, facing things become even more terrifying,
than if under normal circumstances.
You can never hide,
these things follow you around like small children in a grocery store.
No matter how well you hide,
whether it's under soil and dirt,
or under your bed,
or even in your own head.
They'll always find you.
Always.