We drink and sink and rise and flow and spin around the sun and then we kiss and even though it might not be love, because we feel it, that somehow seems enough. If it comes from the guts, then it’s perfect, and although it isn’t pretty, it’s beautiful because it makes us shiver as we lie awake at night thinking of all the things we’re not supposed to think. My beard connects me to the forest; it makes me feel at one with the dead souls that have gone before me, and although ex-lovers were never a fan, that’s why they’re ex-lovers and not real lovers. That’s why the world is too small, and the place I need to be exists in my head and not in the streets that spew out the same old shit day after day. Give me illusion and burn my retinas with what it means to be alive. Don’t feed me comatose dreams of how I should resemble everyone else. You’re better than that. Well, you used to be, anyway. Remember when you wanted to stand out from the crowd? When you wanted to tear down walls and piss in the faces of all those that didn’t believe in the fire you kept inside? But how easy it is to slip right in. How simple a thing to be like those you once claimed to despise. The slave begins by demanding justice and ends by wanting to wear a crown. Well, I’m still a slave, and I always shall be. A slave to dangerous desires, and the need to be far out of reach of those that want to change me into how they think I should be. So lift up that skirt and allow me to lose myself in what you are; give me a reason to shed this skin and change into what I am within. Give me a reason to light a cigarette and watch in awe as you become my whore as we creep upon shores they told us never to creep. Yeah, you, my beautiful freak, keep doing what you do and I’ll keep doing it through and through until we’re on our backs unable to speak or do anything other than blink at the stars as they wait for us to return.