I'm scared that 'becoming' who I am is just an acceptance of realities others have created. Maybe the older we get the more entrenched we become in what we perceive to be the truth; the more we experience of our tiny existence, the more we believe in it.
"The way of life we live, a life we have never really chosen, forces us to walk past what we see."

My wings upon;
the falling hopes of I,
As heavens lift a buried heart,
In the tears of time,
endless as the miles to nowhere.

O'

Lover of so;
that you and I haven't met,
Many are my requests,
and these prayers of future,
Hurricanes of voices;
rhythms of choices we make,
The rhymes of pen;
all bled out onto paper.

Mobility of pen,
an agility with great nobility,
But only of those gifted the ability;
as the few residents of a poetic community.

These are the great successes;
from the hardest of times,
Within man's running thoughts,
all screaming-
"you've run out of luck, and time"

But I was running in place;
in the stillness of waiting on fate,
Despite of it being easier to wait,
how do you find what's out for you,
Being too afraid to walk out of the gate?

It may be;
an eye for an eye,
But it's the I against I;
as self-delusion makes any blind.

People can lie with the brightest smile,
stick close to your successes;
As you keep track on the race of life,
by it's undermined marathon mile.

Remember that all things fade.
All creatures must have an end
To bear new beginnings.
And all new beginnings
Come from resolution.

Years ago,
I wrote a poem
warning to "never make a home of a human"

Today,
I find myself a hypocrite
eating my own advice and swallowing it whole

I made a home of you
only to realize it was constructed of straw
and all it took was one huff and one puff from you to blow the whole thing to the ******* ground

He asked my advice.
Eighteen years old, and 
no fire in his eyes.
No fight, no spark.
Just fluff, and
nonsensical darkness.

When I was your age,
it was all
sunshine
vaginas, and
*******.
I drank daily
and painted with
blood.
I drank so
much, I ******
myself once a week.
I lived in the
river and ******
beautiful mermaids.
What seems to be
your problem George?

He said he was a ******,
and that he was lazy, and had
no self-esteem.

I said,
why do you always wear
yellow?
maybe, you should do
something with your
life; join a club, or
protest something.
You look like a
giant daffodil.

I'm lazy though,
I don't want to do
anything.

Well, I said,
that could be why
your self-esteem is low.

Try reading, writing,
or taking a walk
in the woods.
It worked for
Frost and Thoreau.
And hey George,
if you don't motivate
yourself, you will
never get laid.
Women take work.

I don't like work,
he said.

How are you going to
support yourself?
Do you want to
live in homeless shelters
or under bridges?
It's no life for
a kid like you George.

You should do something
about that mop of  red
hair you got.
You are white, and you
have an afro.
You look like a chunky
Ronald Mc Donald.
Maybe, try fast food or
a carnival.

I need *****, he says.

George, ***** is great,
but it isn't going to just
show up one magical
night while you live
in your mom's
basement
and play video games.

Forget about women for
now and read some
Bukowski
Hunter
Hamsun,
even Tolstoy.
Listen to some
******* music.
Try the greats,
Mozart
Beethoven
Sublime, and
The Grateful Dead.

I don't like music,
and reading
is boring.

Well, then my advice
is to 
watch more
TV.
I can tell you like
television.

Alright, George,
I have some writing
to do, I will see you
around.

I went back to my
room,
sat down, and
thought,
now, what the hell
did I do with that
hard
boiled egg?

Got to do something with your life
or you'll have no life to live at all
Spent my time ******* about whatever came around
But no matter what you do, there will be something
something worth ******* about
So better do something good and enjoy it
or you'll realize when you're dead and gone
and they're singing your song
well...
******* is all they will have to sing about.