Near 20, I was hoping for
too much, too fast. Praying for
hopes and dreams and glorious
memories that I was sure would
last.

What I've got is more than most,
I will admit unapologetically. I
guess that's just the American inside me.

I expect what I have and I'm grateful
for it, if that makes any sense at all.
I have food on my plate and a roof over head, but somehow I yearn for more...a greater call.

Near rhymes are nice, but symphonies of melodic rejoice are more my speed. Things that go together and mesh and generally agree.

I'm looking for a greater self and purpose: things not easily found. I thought I always knew what I wanted, but perhaps I'm not that profound.

I take pride in what I know and love all I can, but is that enough to save a soul? This life is only a short time coming and already partially gone; maybe there's more to this life story than racing towards worldly goals.

Two level heads aware of the other,
chasing round and round with voices.
Things said back and forth, yet nothing
different when making choices.

All for one and one for me,
inclined on being right before 12:30.
Fighting isn't new, just a shuffled voice in place of the last feud.

It comes too easy, the chase, that is.
Preying back and forth for another
opportunity rather than miss.

That's the true difference between
you and I, you see. I look for
truth: bitter and cold, while you look for sympathy.

When I think of her,
I travel back to the age
of precisely 14. Five years
pathetic from my current
life place, but I almost can't
help myself. Almost.

After all this time, it's not
you I don't trust. Really. I'd
be able to admit that. But it's
her. It's the thought and feeling
of knowing she once danced across
your skin, breathed you in and held
you so close like I desperately do.

I never want to lose this. Never want
to lose you, in my arms and I in yours.
It's inconsequential, but then again,
so were a lot of things.

Wandering mind, idle hands:
they're called the devil's playground
for a reason. I slam myself into
the over analysis of nightmares
of mid-day slumbers.

Forcing sleep upon my waking body
to numb the pain of another useless
day in another useless body stuck in
this useless state of mind. That's all
it ever is, though. Place and thought.

But I'm comfortable set in misery
and pushing away the closest things
and people to love and home that I have. Cutting strings and burning bridges were always my favorite past time.

That type of self detriment always comes easier than dragging some sort of blade to idle flesh. Starving your body from life is much easier than
purging dinner from my swollen stomach. Full and "happy" because I live in America.

I tell you this: there are other ways of
hurting oneself that don't involve physical infliction. I find that of the mental and emotional type much more satisfying.

What if the hardest thing
was waking up in the morning?
Begging and pleading with your
body to release you from your bed.

The blankets grow from warm
and comforting to a shield from
the light outside. Pillows embody
the brick wall you build around.

You don't want to move...don't dare
to disturb the shaking peace that you've accomplished by remaining
motionless: the stage of least resistance.

Who the **** wants to hear
another sob story of a girl all alone,
bored with her thoughts or the
agony of being home?

How the light of the sun casts
out all her faults, or simply
pretending that long, hot
June days are soon to be lost.

Summer is choking in more
ways than one, forcing relations
with those whom you'd rather
be done.

Lost friends we call them, those
from your past. But truth be told,
everyone knew we'd never last.

**** foundations split sooner
than hoped, but what was lost
to her then was more than just most...

Most of what she clung to from
days of old, where the glory of
embroidered polos signified gold.

But here, two years later from the
grim summer of '12, she closes old
books and shoves them back to their shelves.

Banished are the memories of these
days from the past, and cut are the ties from "friends" who'd never last.

Here's to the ones that deal
with the annoyances of every
day life. To all who choke down
the pounding alarm of morning
and avoid falling asleep on the
highway to another day of mindless
"living life." No questions, please.

No interruptions in the routine. No
radical injections of new ideas or change...but most importantly, no criticism of the daily dose of life here, in the Valley of average and desemated.

To those who fall in line with the rest, hoping that this morning's coffee is the last they'll ever sip. Or to the paper man driving and praying today's the day his car will finally slide off into a ditch of peace. Some type of homicidal heaven to escape the suffocating grip reality seems to hold...to break free of the fleeting expectation of greatness, when all you have to offer is yourself.