Life is but a grade, isn't it?
A silent message drilled in every day
an unwritten rule,
Undeniably implied:
we're all just letters on
The blankest of white space.

Those jagged coloured crosses
Pierce me every time
a zero on that question,
An X through all I write
Again and again
Like a thorn through my skin
And my every fibre of confidence.
The artificial longing to improve
***** all the passion from within.

whatever happened to hobbies?
To our hopes and our dreams?
To the thrill of the stage
Or the big silver screen?

All now come second
To that letter on that sheet.
It's a new kind of sickness
chokes those who try to breathe.

lock those dreams in a safe, son,
hunker down,
Make me proud.
Those old dreams don't exist, son,
Just a grade,
in sloppy ink.

To be what they want
Is to win a battle
To be who you are
Is to win a war

A shining steampunk romance
Found at the end of the earth
Risen from ashes,
whilst a world falls to ruins
around them.
Yet reality is nothing to these girls.

A call to love in apocalypse
A sick smile pulls at her lips
Engulf in flames, my everything,
she says,
Because, ****, it'll be worth this last kiss.

This war rages like a great manic animal
Destruction every step of the way
On opposite sides,
they're to fight for their lives,
it's each to their self and their own.

"They're wrong."
"I know."
"They don't know what we have."

What they're missing is theirs,
a love rarely had.

We're over and we're done,
the world would say,
It's the end of the day.

"Not for us. Not even close."
She takes her hand. Turns her back on all she's lived.
"This, my dear,
This is where life begins."