Tonight I went to a house warming party,
Just to be nice,
When I really should have been at home,
With my hungover head on ice.

I didn't like most of the people there,
They bored me in fact,
Especially the cliche hippies with long dreaded hair,
Clothes, barely intact.

As the night went on,
The washed up ****** ****,
Came through the gate.
One by one by one.

I don't have time for people,
They drain me.
Trying to be nice by buying minors alcohol,
But no one repays me.

The welcome wasn't the warmest,
I was patronised because of my mode of transport,
By yet another ****** ****,
And his tattered up Jansport.

Eighteen years to realise,
That the public and I don't get a long.
Eighteen years later and I can guarantee,
That i'll be singing my own funeral song.

dream, tired
wake up, tired
get up, tired
get going, tired
hi, tired
bye, tired
leave, tired
come, tired
sleep, tired
dream, tired
exhausted, tired
echo

I write to survive
and to state what's on my mind.

I do it to stay alive,
and digest what I find

in these forests who revive
me; they show me a sign

to keep going,
to keep pushing

--stay within these versatile lines,
write these words in real time.
Never erase or rewind.

(A.L.W)

I am not alone because I
Can't make friends

I am alone because alone is safe

No one can tear the
Tender flesh of my heart
If no one is near enough
To find it