Bound by society,
Trying to free her wings
Balancing truth with conformities
Leaving her hung like a child on a swing.

Torn by expectations,
Each piece a clue to her mind
Ragged in clothes not hers, but theirs
Bearing with them, of her, no sign.

Leaving it, she'd attempted,
'Integrate', they said
'Lose yourself, to join us'
They could've said instead.

My father has a problem.
He listens to all this conspiracy,
whilst drinking a beer or 5 every night.
Instead of spending time with my mother and I.
I've started to dread family dinners as all they do is instil hate in me,
he talks about death and killing and yet knows nothing of me.
My dad doesn't remember my birthday most days,
this year he couldn't remember my mum's.
And I can't live in a house where one occupant stinks of *****.
Where a family slowly starts to break.
My father is an alcoholic,
but the only one who won't admit it is he.

Love to many people means just the
Phisycal things love to others mean to be able to trust the
Other person with their feelings to be able to love them and only them to love them with their whole heart forever but really does love EVER last I mean sooner than later love dies either in life ending or just no longer a flame or because someone thought love was a game if you take a step back and think Does Love Really Ever Last?

Sometimes a sadness comes over me.
And I drag myself under the porch  
like a wounded dog,  
injured and ashamed
ready to die, alone
I never let the rest the world see me like this.
My friends and family,
What would they think?
probably the worst,
Maybe they wouldn't think about it at all,
It didn't make much difference.
I howled and moaned and wept,
And sooner or later,
when I built up the courage,
Usually, after a night in a tall glass,  
drunken spit,
and flickering cigarettes,    
I drag myself back out.  
I shake out my bones,
and start all over again.
I know one day
I wont have the strength to crawl back out from under the old porch ,
But that's  okay.
We never really had a shot anyway
did we?

We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

The spark of passion ignites the heart, until it is engulfed in a conflagration of notions, as curiosity triumphs over caution.

The seed of wisdom, planted in fields of knowledge, is cultivated and refined in kingdoms of intellect to innovate speeches of freedom.

Blisters in sweaty palms, rubbing against the pen, as it drifts between the paths of future and past, where hope is met and joy is felt.

Consumed by epiphanies, the heart-beat is felt by trembling hands, squeezing the pen for inspiration, to bewilder imaginations, giving birth to new perceptions.