He woke up like he was in a police lineup
Almost flunking out never became a regret
The library wasn’t exactly where they met
The people he knew are still his friends
The ones that are gone he’ll never forget

He smoked a few packs every ten years
But he didn’t really smoke you know
It was easy to quit ‘cause it was all for show
Not being paid for acting never mattered
A friend is being planted in the same row

He thanked Jesus enough to be noticed
He never felt worthy enough to pray
Who asks for what they can’t give away
It’s hard being an artist with limits
So he said the hurt will never play

He didn’t want anyone to take care of him
It was hard because he kept his own mind
He was going to learn on his own time
She told him he didn’t want a family
He said he already left his mom behind

But one day he noticed his children
That was the reason for living now
That old prayer was telling him how
He still dreamed of long flowing hair
But it’s love that his life won’t allow

It is not
to achieve things for their own sake
A continuous line
is the end to the means
To keep alive
what forgotten souls once felt
And not
the promises of kings and queens

To accept
who you are instead of judgment
To be unique
and a friend of uniqueness
A shoulder to spare
and a tear to give away
And strength
to understand human weakness

All these sad sillouhettes of sad people, artists and creatives.
Smoke filtering through broken lungs.
Rising and lifting the spirits of the dead.

Coz we are the broken few who see the light in the darkest of moments, breathing in the dampest air, and enjoying every moment.

Look, dude.
I'm not here for you.
You have dibs,
That's only fair.
You were first,
But let me share.
Don't read mine,
I won't read yours.
None of it mattered
At all, of course.
It won't stick.
Nothing does.
Fleeting interest.
Kind of like us.

Within the lonely tunnels of the underground
lurk soft honeysuckle smiles.
These young hopefuls are surrounded by darkness
but in each one, there is a hidden light.

For some, this light is an idea.
For others, a burning passion waiting to be exploited.
But for a select few, this light is their whole self
- their being is a treasure yet to be released into the world.

He is the first light that shone so wildly,
I could see it even from within his mind.
He is dipped in talent and purity,
unseen in the higher, filthier realm.

One day, these hopefuls will surface from the underground.
And he will be the first spark of this fire
that illuminates our hopeless world
with the eternal flame of art.

As my Bright Hopeful shines above
I will remain in the dark underground
where my light has long since dimmed out.
And i will wonder if he remembers the match that lit him.

It's funny
that inspiration
only knocks on
the doors of your mind
in times of heartache
in times of heartbeats
but never
in times of peace
... and as twisted as it sounds
I like that