I don't believe the truth
The truth tip-toes around
The shadows of dead men
And their books
Their monologues and
Their pieces upon pieces
Of Art

I wretch from the smell
Of the moist putrid air
Stained with the stench of
Lighter fluid and cheap beer

The nights were always
So comforting there, there
Were always
So many choices at my
Finger-tips...it was never enough

If there was a reason
To go back
I haven't found it yet

If there were a trial
I forgot to undergo
Perhaps I'll buy the ticket
Tomorrow

But these faces
With these expressions
All of them needing to live

Yet life is
Within them
Current

Touch your breath
Death's hand is there
Resting near
Your collar bone atop
Your shoulder

Inhale life and
Exhale it

Feel nothing
But
Yourself

Take care of the partner
Across from yourself and
See they do not
Want to take your hand or
Feel your love or
Listen closely to your thoughts

They secretly will
Never care
For your reaction

They have
Already turned
Their back on you

Alone is
Where we all
Should grow
Fond of, for there
Is where
We will one day go

Living for art
Is not living

Living
In art
The same

Living
is

Touching
Smelling
Seeing
Hearing &
Feeling

But so many
Feel the need
To express
These things

Out of respect with
A secret wish
Of a prize

The world Herself
Does all these
And more

Yet She does not need to
Knock on your door
Looking for you
In the middle of the night or
With rising sun
Seeking a reward
From you

To live and earned
Nowadays with
These kinds of minds
Around me

Holds a crushing
Community of
Comrade Creativity

I just can't

Figure out