Your shaking, like Parkinson’s disease.
There on my desk, silently you sit.
With no particular reason,
You unnecessarily stare me down.
Until I am forced to take that one,
Last, sip.

To see art as a way of life, to see it like the blood running through your veins.
To see creating like eating or drinking, creating passions for people to remember.

Will it be worth it? Will it be worth it to be passionate every day,
Even if people won’t see you, cause you’re not in a movie. You’re not seen.

That is not what passion is about. It isn’t about how many people will know you were, Passionate.

Little groups would start to form at the end of 6th Grade,
And the so-called new society we live in would be proven to exist.
One group, had the cool guys.
In my school, it would consist of the non-virgins,
Or at least the braggers, that would say they where non-virgins.
It was hard to tell if they where just trying to be cool, or telling the truth.
Truth wasn’t a common word for my generation though,
If something was the truth, it would usually be a lie.
If something was a lie, it would usually be the truth.
He said he had *** with a 32 year old, lie.
He said he didn't like a girl from 8th grade, truth.

With a disgusting smile on his face, he looked at me.
I never really knew what he was trying to achieve.

His green cat eyes would receive my outmost attention.
I don’t know why, a bunch of stereotype computer nerds.

All he was after, was meaning.
He would bark information into a template of non existence.

And it would, never, arrive.
Worried and disappointed his nights would end up being blank thoughts.

Which would have its affect on the next day.
And the next day, another useless undocumented 24 hours of his life.

Was there really a reason to all of it?
When at the end of the day, no one knows.

No one will have seen the sacrifice, the infinite loyalty.
Really, they only see it when your dead.
And once that has happened, they give you some small medal,

Which looked like the one I got in a pre school swimming race.
It all felt like it didn't matter.
Love, passion, sacrifice, endless days of hopeless trying, but for what?
When one day you will die, who will care that you once dared to say you were gay?

Who will care that one day you spared an arm for a friend.
I’ll tell you who’ll care Alan.

No-one.

But you gotta deal with it.

It was the days knows as, the happy days, that I would be sad.
Those were the days I started to think, about why, I was sad.
New Years Eve,  a day I spent with my family every year.
For most, it is known as a day of happiness
In which you step into a new 365 days of your life.
For me it was different, I would feel sad in my room and seek for something good,
Something good to make me feel better, perhaps in the TV.
I would wonder why the fireworks upset me, and hurt my ears.
Even though I knew the latter, I would wonder about it.
My grandma never did like it much, reminded her of the Germans, or something like that.
I sometimes wished I could have been there for my family.
I wished I would have been born 100 years earlier to protect my family.
After 2004, we would never celebrate the 31st with my Mum’s side.
They would stay inside, and wear these huge ear protectors,
Or, they would scream.