Four pages of white water stained paper to start my night. I should of been in bed sleeping but the ******* drunk and incoherent shouting of my neighbors was like pounding the book agains my head. Is it pretentious to fill the boom with nonsense or is this suppose to build anticipation, as if buying the book and having to wait till I was off the high way was not enough. Am I suppose to fill these four pages with thought, does this author not realize that everyone thinks just as much as him but does not need to make up a world of two hundred pages to convey it. What else do you think these ***** can do besides fill space, but maybe these four pages are proof they can't. "Pretty **** good read" the guy behind the counter says.

How strange it seems that they are so informed.
Its odd the opinions they have.
There are those that think they understand life, without really living.
You can explain what you see, but the blind will not always understand.

Misinformed but so very interested, you think you know what your missing. Ill try to lend my hand, but you lack the ability to grasp. So people cant love unless they know there will be love given back.

How good it feels to hold you.
At night we lay there with the world not affecting us in the slightest.
When others spend time with the screen, we spent time lost and not looking for a way back.
Ill fight you, you will lie to me. Make me think things that were never really true only to later change again.
But in the end I have confidence in you.
I have confidence in me. That is how I have made it through.

Am I ever really grown? They say that you are a adult once you are no longer dependent. Yet since the growth of society we have be bred on dependency. As a child you depend on your mother or your father.
Yet how many these days can "live" without being dependent on money.
I do not say this as condescension but as fact, a fact I to am guilty of.

I find that music can be disinhibitin.  Ill spend my life always searching for the next song, things that were lost but only for a short time. We are always looking for ways to express ourselves, music often without intention does that for us.

Today we gather in the places we stood before, or the ones that had birthed us stood. we are shadows to the times that have long since passed.  All I can do at this moment is try achieve as much as can. So because of this I grab wildly at moments that appear before me, whether they are good or bad. What else can I do? If I were not to take a chance on the random how will I ever find out on what I could of been missing. I can not say that I write poems more compulsively scribble down fragments of ideas in the split second they appear.

I was left with the smoke wiping right by the eye.
my hands were crossed and my foot shaking.
I would snap and yell into the air "what happened to the time?"
what had she been so cruel to me, she took all those who were by my side.
It was in the quiet that I begin to rattle my stagnant cage.