I am so afraid of becoming White Collar Micheal.
He likes to act like his life is so hopelessly blightful, because his name is White Collar Micheal.
On the weekend, he throws on a tie-dye.
Goes from Business Man, to Mr. Nice Guy?
Deep down you know it's a facade, aka,
Your big life's a big lie.  
He does so many uppers you may as well call it the tweekend.
He fills his mind with illusions of grandeur.
I look at him and think "you need to be a man first."
Instead of filling my head with candy and dreams, I face my demons.
And it's utterly delightful because I know I will never become a
White Collar Micheal.

messy room, messy mind
beneath these pictures you will find
memories, vague but bright
they leave my eyes so full of light
they keep my eyes from losing sight
of the place I visit in my dreams at night
if I had wings I'd soar great heights
back to my home, an eager flight
but wish I may and wish I might
this cannot be, my dreams are blight

My life's presupposition is volatile meaning. Unfathomable disposition dispersed amongst the heavens. Until one blightful day, I become; the bounds of my existence tethered to soil and flesh, understanding nothing but suffering. Blood and bones interwoven into another unfathomable hypothesis; potentiality and its unknown repercussions.  Adhering only to the reality of mortality and the confines to which that is inherent. Its like dropping an anchor in the ocean of being, with the assumption that every ripple made will contribute to the tide, with or without the ability to float. But I sink either way, for that is our duty. To move under the bounds of gravity and the tides of reality until we reach the bottom of our fruitfulness. And then we return to the volatile meaning from which we came, that ripples outward as our contribution to the future.

Was I supposed to veer left at the fork in the road
or should I continue with here I tread?
So much confusion from the signs I read.
Is it too late to find my way?

I long to be home, finding comfort next to the fire.
It is winter and the air is bone-chilling;
memoirs of love being my last inner killing.
Please, Frost, help me find a way!

It's not too late! It's not too late!
Branches scrape as the dead oaks howl.
Fear is the new survival, reality now foul.
I cannot seem to find the path.

Minutes felt like hours, days felt like years,
and memories of a home soon began to fade away.
It was the fear and doubt that led me astray.
I don't think I can make it..

My legs collapse and the pile of snow welcomes me.
With a final look, I see a flickering, dim light.
Home! I crawl frantically through blightful white.
The light flickers desperately...then, night.

*I guess I was too late