These hands.
These rough and eager hands.
They've hurt enough.
They've done enough.
Its about time to cut them off.
These hands.
These old and rusty hands.
Have compiled a list of duties.
And helped thousands of people.
Those eyes.
Those cold and dusty eyes.
They see right through me
and reveal this empty person.
How honest can you be?
I don't really know,
And I don't truly care.
But there is something
you should know.
Its that I don't feel
or give a ****.
Beware.

I can remember
that there was a time
when I was young
and nothing was real.
Nothing made sense.
Everything was happy,
yet so complex.
So many...
Discoveries.

I've forgotten all these things.
Like an old, damaged film.
Dusty and grainy.
I envision the emotions
The excitement and confusion
Frustration, and discovery
Aromas and sounds of the ocean.
Allergies...

I feel as though,
that I can't remember.
More than I should.
More than I would.
If things had been normal.
I would have felt less.
Maybe remembered more.
More than before.

Bitter-sweet things come,
and are rough around the edges
of the corners of my room.
At this crazy moment
I suddenly realize
the true and healthy path.
The old doesn't matter.
The past is what it is.
And the truth really is,
the meaning is long lost.

I'll tear my sleeves right off my shirt
and shed my fears and loneliness.
My secret trail...
is in my own back yard.
Sacred and peaceful.
Thick and scarred.
A giant padlocked door.
But it's okay,
that's just the way it is.
I will stand strong.
Anything else is just surface rust,
but not enough to fail.
Not enough to sway.