Three days absent
I was adrift
The fog blanket wrapped me warmly
Miles from the surface
At the end of the weekend I was missing
Notice had not been offered to a searching soul

Like stained glass in a chruch window
The people slashed my face
Red ignorance formed tiny droplets of isolation on my grimace
Dug deep into every inch of nail bed and hair folicale of my was the horrifying visions of authorities and friends continually brutalizing themselves in a twisted insanity
Ants oblivious to the impending massacres above them
To scratch out ones eyes and ears we must depersonalize
Drifting in the wind behind my body
Hazily hovering between battle feilds of disturbing emotional connectivity  
Playing the lottery with my own neurological chemistry
I obtained several steps away

I can not feel a thing
I can feel everything
Everything is pretty
Everything looks ******
Everything is connected
Everything is random and directed

Inside my glass house
Under the flesh
There is black tarred rooms
Where every bit of dust sticks
I tried to clean them
Now I cannot escape
Where they keep throwing stones

There is no hope
There is a scratch on my throat
There is a home in my prison
There is a blur in my vision
There is a boy in the bars
There is a there is a life in afar
There is a lonely sea
There is a night when it's waves are tall enough to drown me
There is a paper bag on my head
There is a hat made with lead
There is a rope
There is no hope
There is a pain in my stomach
There is a wingless butterfly taking it's plummet
There is a lock with no key
There is a mystery
There is a note missing
There is a sorrow hissing
It's something never wrote
There is no hope

Once upon a time
There was one mean boy and one kind
They were born on the same day at the same time
They were born with almost identical minds
Their parents were perfect and life was great
But they suffered a very different fate
When one boy painted an angel wing
The other one gave his mom a swing
When one boy would smile
The other ran away from home a mile
When one boy gave flowers
The other only wanted power
In a few years time mean boy made a mistake
He sold something that was fake
He went to jail
And he wailed
In life he failed
We end the poem here
But was there more to hear?
How could two people be exactly the same
With only one destined for fame
It's up to you to decide
Why to certain people empathy and success hide

They taught in school the most powerful one was the speaker
When I got older I realized that the loudness actually makes one weaker
I learned how to show and not tell
I saw that words were the cheapest thought you could sell
My artwork was stonger
And it would last much longer
Marching in protest
The words printed on the signs and faces were better than the rest
And when somebody made me angry or cry
I didn't say anything, I wouldn't even sigh
The understanding of discontent was more loud and clear
Than any ear could ever hear