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Old,

Prematurely,

Worn-out,

Before I,

Could come into contact,

With who I was,

Friction,

In this nothingness,

Burning up,

Waiting for,

Atmosphere still,

The soul of existence,

The hell it pushes out,

And the reality,

Which would never hide,

So hurt,

But,

With such little pain,

So subdued,

Even before,

The sleepiness sets in,

Cherished form,

Bodies aching,

And the free verse,

Of poets,

Our connotations,

And the literal meaning,

Of the dumb,

When the strong,

Are supposed to be honest,

Set apart,

In this island of loneliness,

Reminding me of that world,

I could never escape,

Escaped responsibilities,

So he lives without me,

And what can Eminem offer?

Who would give,

What I already have,

When they don’t realize,

I never had it?

If I ever had it,

Poems would hold no meaning,

And in a land of no bruises,

Bruises are not healed,

They are ignored,

This is happiness,

And I will be happy,

If it will make you happy,

Look away,

So that I may cry,

In this world,

Of too many silly expressions,

Who may I express myself to?

The titled elite,

Elite rock stars,

Heavens in the center,

Of so many hells,

Though,

The rejects they are,

They have never left hell,

Kurt Kobain killed himself,

Before I even knew to live,

I would like to live,

And offbeat kids,

Talk to me about it,

Deep-set eyes,

And talks of broken family,

A witty sense of life,

People who were wronged,

Self righteous,

Secure in these roles,

But searching,

For their parts still,

Uncaring,

And needing love still,

Mad,

And hurting,

To smile,

And they say,

‘When we were little,’

Old men,

Asking age,

For some respect,

Hollowed,

So maybe,

Someone would come in,

Dense,

Too many have come in,

Only to leave,

Dark hair,

And cackling voice,

Dark fear,

Bright,

So we could be happy,

In these pretend worlds,

When you go home,

I will pretend still,

Pretending,

When we could never play,

Suck in your breath,

And look at her hair.