Sometimes he sits back and wonders if he's a born star? his intelligence mixed with creativity may take him very far...as He makes poems about his past, write songs about his scars…take a step into his footnotes and sit behind his painful bars.
Now He's afraid to speak to a woman who's simply a mirage
Who's beauty He created through his artistic collage,
Vogue was her blue eyes, Victoria Secret her hips and thighs, cover girl was her lips and atlas was was her mind..
Being a star, the perfect woman isn't to hard to find...but He wants no dime...just a beautiful woman He can call mine
With the uniqueness of the earth and the vocals of the sky!

"But I lie...because I'm no star and this is no woman of mine"

The phase of figmentation is the value of ones Imagination to create false pleasure in order to fulfill ones sensations of a woman who isn't real but helps formulate ones motivation
Of false hope and fictional love to make him less abrasive

He still could be a star even with these thoughts
Cause he stands for originality, and refuses to be bought
He thinks outside the box while he writes in his pad with a pen...
Because he writes down his first thoughts and erasing he doesn't commend.
Would show it all off but his friends just wouldn't understand
That he wants to be a star and wants them as his biggest fans

He wants to spread hope, he wants change a life, he wants the exposure so he could guide the lost through a guided light, he wants to open doors for the ones scared of the night, he wants the men to be gentlemen, all the women to be treated right.

Was he born to be a star? Very few people know,
But his values plus his motives seem to all think so
We watch as he grows..
He continues to find his stride
He believes he can be a star, he also believes everybody has a star...deep down inside.
(Snaps)

-Dougie Simps

My Hands,

Stretch skyward from my arms

So i can reach the next rung on that old rope ladder

And my feet, dangle in the air,

Just above all of this Earth-matter


I try desperately to reach the top of the treehouse

And onto its dusty plywood planks, rotted throughout

And as my hand reaches further, grasping for the next rung..


Nothing.


Wait, what do I mean nothing? Surely i was creating an intriguing story, luring in to, grab your attention, so why stop now?


Does it matter? The Matter we are made of? Are we made? Are we...real?


Can I really know what that threaded rope feels like as i clutch in my hands

Or can i explain to you in vivid detail how the old oak tree smelled rustic and earthen


Was that all real? Did i make it up? Are we just a figmentation of a collective imagination?


Woah, Too deep.


See, I don’t agree with it.


I define my reality as moments where i question if it is.


For example, The first time I rode my shiny new bike down our old country street, in which i immediately hit a tree.


Or my very first kiss with a girl that wasn’t my mom, its awkwardness and romanticism somehow shown through a dimly lit row of crowded movie theater seats.


Maybe my last hug with my dad, before he passed away, and how i couldn't feel his life when i said goodbye to him the next day.  


Moments like these… make me question everything. Whether or not Fate exists and if I remembered to check my breath before leaning in


I think, therefore i am. But it's more than that.


I feel, and i taste and i touch and i am aware.

Aware of the pain of grief, the joy of kindness, the thankfulness of understanding.


I am aware that no one person is the same and that everyone's story is worth telling, that every letter i type is a new permutation or combination that may have never been said before, in a way that has never been told.


I am aware that i can feel infinite while simultaneously feeling infinitesimal, and that my boredom is one of the most fascinating things on this planet.


So even if this isn't real, that my words aren't my own, that all of this, is just… nothing.


I feel unique, and different, and no amount of science will take away the mystery of my spirit.

I live in a world of pre decided.
I have already been studied
my future is guided
I enter a world of people who have
graphed my thoughts.
A world where the new generation
is just a producers figmentation
A baneful balance of
who they were
and who we are to be.
How do I compete with a list of facts
that determine my personality?
The dystopian novelty is not lost on me.
But I will not concede
I do not have to be what they need
I am free to build a symphony of options
and no matter what your webpage says
"I do not live in a world of pre decided"

-Raen