its a truth ' they broke the mould when you were born'
so do not frustrate yourself with trying to fit in to some notion of what it means to live to the full. You are already unique and consequently only a unique way of life will content you.

letting go the frustration
I found freedom
and dared to be
and dared to be me.

Last Summer I dream't that I danced with you around the same time this year.
Alone in the park by the soles of filled shoes.
The indie sound of hearts racing in constant wonderment.
Tuning down the sound of our voices.
Our hands fitting perfectly inside one another.
The light of our eyes illuminating the sun.
Last Summer I couldn't begin to tell you how much I loved you.
Pyromaniacs in love with the Summer sun.
Falling in love with the deep circles our feet made.
Dancing alone in the park, recognizing ourselves in the reflection see through each others eyes.
The only escape that fills the massive void felt last Summer.
Listening to the sound of your voice laying down.
Feeling whole. Your hand inside if mine.
A recreation of this Summer seen last Summer.
Slowly looking up, holding on to the memories of last Summer

Yet another year
Yet another stick
The disappointment grows
Thought and muscles slow.

It takes half a life
To realise where it's gone
Need to make a change
Before you're in chains.

Watching everyone else
Do they feel the same?
Content with everyday drawl
Onward we all crawl.

Tired of waiting around
For something that doesn't show
My blood turns cold
As I grow old.

There's a disconnection,
   because he doesn't know
where the line crosses
from crucification
   to melodrama.
The light plays
   on his face,
mysterious, illuminating,
  and all that,
but you pay attention
  to his wrists,
nailed to the slab
of wood in such a
   way as to incite
divine intervention.
  Cue the angelic choir.
Their voices are not rejoicing,
    though, but divinely wrathful
towards our imitating.

Instead, I give you

simple tragedies;

how you will
never remember everything
and the more you live the
more there is forgotten.
Sewn optical cords
seeing the reimagined
through blurry suspicion,
stifling doubt, and
****** buttons.

Metallic words
cutting skin like butter.
The knives will sink
slowly into our
chests and we will be
exactly too far away
from anyone to
do anything about it.

How convenient.

A set of hands,
their cross-stitched fingers
frayed at the ends,
entangling. Still,
they will stumble
to pick up the pieces,
to fix the seaming
in the strings.