Sixteen again in my mind.
Sixteen again but I've grown too old.
Sixteen with an ego, and a chip
on the shoulder that cracks the veil
of "pretend I'm an adult."
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
Actions speak louder then words,
so why go back to write these
words down? Hoping to cure
What actions have not?
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
And getting the feeling that everyone
is pretending its all ok,
when maybe, it would be better
for all to allow ourselves to doubt.

On the slippery slope I stood, confronted by evil. In the valley below, smoke poured up, from a village in upheaval. We stood, opposite from one another, watching the chaos. He laughed, claiming it was my loss. I smiled, "It was a toss." The laugh faded. "After, all this time..." I baded. "Still, haven't learned, we're always traded?" One man dies, another is born. The tale is older then yorn. "So take it!" I say, "The satisfaction you seek. It's hollow. It's false. It's pitty and meek."

Emotions, gone. Only there to hold you back. Beauty, overrated. Artist with a demon, is a stereotype more common then a cold. If it's the person that makes the work, the work can never truly speak for itself. You may be famous now. Maybe remembered for generations. The knowledge may span empires. But, eventually, the artist becomes obscure,  and only then will the work truly matter. What will it say about us?

It's true. I don't know. And I am scared. Even the bravest in the light, have their fear of the dark.

The viscous glue lays in a glass. A jilt of the table knocks it over. Uncurling itself from the languid position, it begins the journey. Millimeting its way out, like some here to, unknown horrid flood of sap. A rather lame flood, that most elderly and morbidly obese could (if the battery on their, medicaid financed, Hover Round, did not give out) outrun. Lava, after cooling, reshapes the world. As though channeling it's long lost predecessor, the glue too,  comes to a sluggish halt and ruins the table.

"I will do it" said the heart.
Unfortunately, the brain was in control.
"Feed me" it began.
"Sugars and sweets,
Pussy and meats.
The more I get, the more I crave.
Til there's nothing to save."

The future! A bright light on the horizon,  like a never ending sunrise. So promising. Until you realize your walking towards the sunset. Your directional compass led you astray. What you were so sure of, is suddenly lost. All that ground, spilling through your hands like water. And that's when you realize you never really held anything. You can't trap the wind. Suddenly, a huge burden is taken off your shoulders. The false world you held on your shoulders is gone. And you are free to try again.

Far from the forest, in the other jungle, restless she sways. The cookie cutter corners draw blood from her psyche. Relaxed, she is, in the omnipresenet life that thrives deep and rich. Her heart hides somewhere in a gore, but only cold stones and black pavement surround her now.

The Maker's words felt like colored glass in her palm. She knew they held something precious inside them. Some lingering thought, that she could almost just grasp, but not quite. It left her feeling inadequate, holding too few of the remaining puzzle pieces. But she knew deep inside, she hoped anyway, that it would all fit in the end. That it was all part of some grand plan.

Another night ends too soon. The sleeper ends up in his bed. The fighter throws beer. The lover's plans run a foul. The party that never was. If time was reverse, how right, it could all go right. Instead everyone leaves with distaste in their mouth. Maybe for the better. The poet makes no sense of the world in a drunken state. Good night.