as i lay down beneath that wayward tree i'm lost in a memory and all that it meant to me. if i had the choice to go back or stare into the sun, i'd stare straight ahead until my eyes were fully-cooked and well-done. a ship without a captain, a shrine without a saint, walking in wet cement, sitting on a bench covered in wet paint. hell isn't a place, it's what you've done to me, someday someone will do it to you, only then you'll see. is it better to be forgotten or never to be seen? to be lost in a crowd or left in-between? i am a spot of blood without a home, freed of the flock and left alone. i seek but shelter and a meal, a taste of something real. i was created to disappoint, like an pencil without the point. what's the point? what's the point.