i hate that our parents taught us to muffle our emotions

and i hate the need for a cigarette that i feel in your car



i hate that when i was younger i told myself to stop writing songs

i hate the need for loving that i feel when i'm alone



but it is going to be alright sometime

it is going to be alright sometime

i feel this soft



you don't know what to do when you're cold and lonely

your sit on my bed and watch tv

the seasons are changing

your hands are frigid and you are messaging your girlfriend

telling her existential things,

bringing her into your crisis



now you're remembering when you were thirteen

and in love with ingrown ivy

and your best friend...

who told you she could never love you and said so in the cryptic bubbles

she drew in your poetry book.

you're feeling kind of restless and you know you can't contest that

there's no way

to get out of this highhandedly-



so you turn away

and you make up words to fill the pages of



your soft leather book

and you think of sweet summer, somewhere special and you crawl

into your bed

where you can be warm

and blend in -

These poems we express,
through our minds that sometimes we suppress,
are delivered through these pages,
in deep, controversial verses.

These lines,
the imitation of life,
single highhandedly,
lets our minds,
saw free from the chains that bind,
to the open expanse of the sky.

I leave you with this message,
hopefully it will guide your passage,
to be free from the masses, that restrain your mind,
in a ball of yarn,
that a creature guards, to keep you inside.