Raise a glass,

Let’s make a toast.

To the years of our lives,

We’ll remember the most.

These times should be flashy,

Filled with drama and chance.

There’s nothing like summer,

For some risky romance.

We are young and inspired.

We are beautiful and strong.

It’s in these golden years,

That we can do no wrong.

So we’ll run from the cops,

And swim naked in pools.

Drink till we drop,

And smoke to feel cool.

The world is our pearl,

That’s how it will seem.

This is the time of our lives,

For you and for me.

They say home is where the heart is:
Mine is currently in a car doing one-sixty in a fifty
Beats per minute zone traveling smoothly
As I dance from lane to lane.

This place will never leave me
As I scuttle, plain and simply.
Trying best to crash before I make it to my meeting
In a zone that's not the same.

This town changed long ago
And yet, I remained indifferent:
Idiocy could see right through me
And stupidity would hit a brick wall after I would.

I'm undeserving running through a desert made of wet sand
Whilst everyone else jogs onwards as if it's asphalt.
I am a lost soul:
Save yourself and treat me as a warning.

Last night I felt the alcohol and darkness slither in again.
So I buried myself into a blanket burrito
and tried not to let the cold take over.
Soon however, it felt suffocating,
tightening around my arms and hands
whenever the night demanded blood and pain.
"I'm protecting you on his behalf," the blanket whispered,
as its warmth imitated his arms and lulled me to sleep.

Nought loves another as itself
Nor venerates another so.
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:

And Father, how can I love you,
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.

The Priest sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he siez’d his hair:
He led him by his little coat:
And all admir’d his Priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
Lo what a fiend is here! said he:
One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy Mystery.

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They strip’d him to his little shirt.
And bound him in an iron chain.

And burn’d him in a holy place.
Where many had been burn’d before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albions shore.

You’ve traded sadness for illness,
devised a physical manifestation
to the reeling of your mind.

You’ve covered scars with tired smiles
and hidden the best parts of yourself,
all so that you might better conform
to their ideals,
forgetting along the way
your own.

Now I’m asking
(begging)
you
to pick yourself up,
mend your barren eyes,
remind yourself of who you are
(loved)
and who you will be.

For the thought of life minus you
is the guillotine of my mind
and weighs heavy on my
troubled heart.

My life is a latent dream
controlled by
consciously
unconscious
emotions
recognizing but not absorbing.

I mimic the complex partial seizures.

In and out.

Fifty percent of the acceptable me can’t breathe
Twenty five percent of me functions for you.

I look down at my hands
and see my fingerprints

every night.

They're different

every night.

Something so familiar yet unfamiliar
traps what happens in microscopic ridges
every time I touch you, making them
unique to my thoughts
whenever they conform to your figure.

Not confident about our ever changing existence –
a demonstration of life.