This might be my last chance to write anything worth writing.

Once I stood for something tall and proud, a set of ideals and heroes.

I am no hero. No great power to wash away the shadows on your face.

I have betrayed who I am, what I stood for....out of emptiness.

I am waiting for the walls to close in on me, looking for the web to be closed over my broken limbs.  

Wake me up please, I'm tired of not enjoying this life, living only to fix those memories I see all around me.

Van Bough had something to say, and he cut his ear off in order to prove what he painted on canvas was real I think.

I am on the edge of a knife, about to find my destiny, either in hope or handcuffs.

Somehow, someway,  I have to make all this mean something, lest I give up on the world entirely.

But that doesn't matter, I am no prophet,  no wikasa kakan

I have to make myself ha e the courage to face the worst, face my soul,