I lay down in my own pool of blood. I wish it came from a blade, or seventy.
No, it came from not being an impregnated teen. When we had the spring scare, I imagined you staying and raising a baby boy.

My mind plays so many tricks on me. Who knows if he really did form or if it was my imagination?
Real life frustrates me, burdened by who this world wants me to be. Well, I'm me.

Wishing for a lullaby to sing me to sleep.
Poor restless me continues to seek for sunken ships and burned down apple trees.
We rush to the hospital to foresee a new life forming, but forget to indeed leave a kiss for those who used to bandage our worst scraped knees.
I'm held down by the routine of being 16, when in reality I'm surpassing my own peers in front of me. I wave goodbye, but they just stand and stare.

Labels define me as I just try to gain understanding, isn't that just quite obscene?

The air is polluted, and we climb the tip top of the mountain until our ears pop.
So this is what it feels like? To breathe in freshness when its already been passed through our ancestors?