This was going to be a message to the masses,
This was supposed to be for those who needed it.
But the voice in my head reminds me the eyes will never find these words,
It screams out they wouldn't care even if they did.

I wish to trade the hallow people,
Give my shoes for theirs.
But when I see the feet are bare,
I use words to cut off mine.

The nerves surface,
the ideas pour out,
and I am fascinated by you,
as though I am not one of you.

So I write in order to reach out,
I write in order to connect.
These words are created to express,
Screaming ironies I do not see myself.

This was going to be a message to the masses,
Except now it's a message to me.
My lines are crossed now that I've moved on,
And so I pretend that this end sets me free

When I was younger and began diving into moss,
I heard whispers of a place where the hours flew on the wings of wandering albatross.
There, never would you find a sore thumb sticking out.
Or hear the name of the lovers who left you in sacred drought.
The misty morning fog could carry you to shore
Back just in time for the service of the church of locked doors
And I'm still waiting for my ticket in
And for that I have sinned

I don't want to be paid for what I want to do,
But I have to have a living.

This is an SOS
This is to keep from blowing my brains out
This is to save another's life
This is for tomorrow
This is what it has always been

It's never appealed to me,
The smell of cigarettes.
Whether it was my upbringing or the Asthma,
I couldn't say.

2-3 days later and it's peaked.
Headache √
Anxiety √
Nausea √

Here I am.
All the symptoms are there.
What these lips have touched.
What these lungs have tasted.

They crave for more.