A blank canvas...
to begin, to expire,
& all in between;

To be born & to die,
all by the pen.
But to those were not born into this world,
it is a struggle.

They see this world as fickle,
fleeting, & passé.

To them, it is a waste;
of time,
of money,
& space.

They do not understand
that, without the brave ones,
there would be no time,
or money,
or space.


Because to create, is to live
-But to be alive, is to experience;
To experience this creativity.

To hear it, smell it, touch it, feel it;

To let it consume you, in all that you do;
The only rule
is to let go.


But they do not understand,
& never shall.

To them, it is black & white;
right & wrong;
good & bad.


they retreat into their own world;
isolated from ours.

I used to be one of them; we all did,
in one era or the other
of our lives.

My only grievance is that it was voluntarily.


The brave ones refuse to go down
without a fight,
But I did.

I gave up the world of the reckless
I gave up a part of my soul,
For the sake
of them.


The pure freedom of being able
to do what I want,
say what I want,
& be whoever I damn well wish to be;

till it

Under the crippling weight
of 'the real world'.


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