I may always find those who think they know what is my duty better than myself
Quite easily, in fact,
For they live just down the hall.
My autocratic governors,
In my life they are enthralled.

They seek to mold me, shape me, watch me grow,
All while conforming to their to their standards.
But they don’t seem to get the gist
That in order for me to become a man,
I must first be a nonconformist.

Yet even as I begin to take form beneath their shadow,
They fail to see what I have become.
They know not not what self harm my hands have brought,
Nor what twisted images my mind hath wrought.
There is no great only misunderstood.

I bleed my heart, my mind, my soul at their feet,
In hopes that which is broken may be rectified.
Although they can see, their pride makes them blind.
Now, disobedience is the thin string by which I cling
To keep with me the sacred integrity of my own mind.

Sun sets on the Golden State;
Street lamps, they illuminate
The dark recesses of my soul,
The darkest parts which I don’t know,

Breaking through the fragile facade,
Through empty prayers to a faithless god,
Awakening my tired soul,
Awakening my aching bones.

Too often I fantasize
Of a youth romanticized
Because I just want to escape
From a reality that I contrive.

I could never achieve this,
The ignorant sense of bliss.
Instead, I spill my blood upon the page
And cry over the Gilded Age.

I wade through a sea of masks
Of broken hearts and broken glass.
I look down at them and see
Friendly faces staring back at me.

We mourn our loss of innocence
And our collective diffidence.
We’re weighed down by our hearts of stone:
Born from chasing dreams that aren’t our own.

Too often we fantasize
Of a youth romanticized
Because we just want to escape
From a reality that we contrive.

We could never achieve this,
The ignorant sense of bliss.
Instead, We spill our blood upon the page
And cry over the Gilded Age.