The mind is a strange place right now.
Don't know if it's fear, apathy, or my exuberance to lay down.
In the first act, I smiled, though I knew nought.
By the time I reached fourteen, I was looking for a way out—
drinking Buckfast and cider in fields to try to fill the void.
I don't know time like those I was supposed to be: carefree and full of joy.
The second act came when the clown went away,
to become a chameleon to interest the worst types.
Life became no easier; the moon was my only ally.
Incapable of anything good, just random acts in isolation.
I often bathed in the orange streetlights while the rest of the world was sleeping.
It was possible to be alone and yet torn alive by my thoughts.
"I'm no good to anyone, man, beast, or fucking God."
I'm okay today. I know what it's like to be not.
The cross that I nailed myself to
was taken down because they needed the wood.
The days I can't take back, the days I should have been happy—
can never be forgiven, nor will they chain me.
As we go.