I've got a rap sheet written in the first degree.
With reasons and excuses as to why the blame shouldn't be put on me
and fingers pointing in every which way
passing fault to every other person who’s mug shot
should be taken in my place.
Yet they still threw the book at me.
Preaching the “Ten” as if they were law (ignoring their own hypocrisy)
See,

I’m a messed up child, masquerading as a revolutionary…
I’m an egotist, masquerading as an anarchist…
yet, the only revolution I’ve made is around the bottle
and the only chaos I’ve inspired is in the mirror.
My memoirs preach of everyone else’s transgression
Titled so eloquently -
“How to f*ck up your life 101”

You see, we’ve literally written the book on this ****.
Playing teeter-totter on the brink of half full
and half empty…(Which are you?)
The optimist or the pessimist?
Or like me, the one spinning faults in the stars
weaving fictions between every memory
laden with my inability to accept my story for what it is
a work in progress.

And when I say, we’ve written the book on this ****-
All the reasons; where, when, how, what and why?
Answers and excuses so superfluous…or some variation of the word
that I can’t pronounce, and that this point,
don’t give a **** to try-
I mean it.

Realization is a *****-
Damning everything in its path!
Like the nightmares we hid from under our baby blankets (obviously Linus was onto something),
as if the thin fabric of our imagination was enough to hide us from the nightmares buried in our hearts…
there is no half full, no half empty
and no one but ourselves to blame.
You see, everyone's a work in progress.
The night lights shine with a new purpose/revelation we can’t ignore.

And this time
I **** well don’t plan to.