I've spent the last days of my youth,
shirking, dodging, refusing adulthood.
Promises of redemption fade with time,
with hairlines, with heartaches and histrionics.
I'm Peter fucking Pan.
A king among children.
Last of a dying breed
of adult runaways.
Unordained
When my Sisyphean mask fails,
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
Distraction
Five years wasted,
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
Diptych
Sometimes it hurts
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
Sepia
It has taken many years
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
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