Ink

Note from Author:

 

Mental wealth is like dental health, soon it will decline again, so savor the moment and let it shine more than most. And it shall blot the blackened mind mess and mess the muddled thoughts, it shall slow the steep and slay the stabbing to you're memories, if only for a second make it last a century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Intro

 

Openings end where closure starts. 

So close to the end, oh so so close! 

Almost had it. 

Now where to start? 

 

Here

A swift black strike across a shift in lines. 

Hear the screams everytime I see three straight lines. 

I, I, I? 

Existing. 

 

But where am I? 

Here-

The corner of a dull piece of paper glistening back at me? 

I listen in. 

 

It's listening, what will I next do. 

What will it next hear? 

A mystery? 

A bridge between the history. 

Of the life of myself, and my life on the shelf. 

A world before a world collides with death. 

 

This story. 

 

A page to be turned before it tears. 

Tears. 

And falls out. 

Connection breaks down. 

 

And it comes falling.

                           down. 

                               down. 

                                    Down. 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

And now? 

Ground. 

Hugs this feeble piece of space and time. 

Found its way down. 

And now rests, the page sleeps in the shadow. 

 

Not of the tree, wood of literary magnificence. 

Not the bloom of blossoms bowing to this shadow, their spines graphite. 

A child shaped shadow. 

A shadow shaped child? 

A solo silhouette stirs. 

What does it hear? 

Who knows but it. 

And he arches his neck. 

His face pointing forward. 

 

Tears point not to the earth. 

Yet his tears point to the soil beneath his knees. 

 

From this soul's view, a goddamn lovely view. 

A point of view with no singular point for you. 

But from his point of view, it means the world. 

 

It means a world. 

 

And in this world you may find-

Trees of leaves, leaving a just space for meadows. 

Meadows in due time, of dew and dunes of blades of scenery. 

Like a set from a play. 

Look. 

It's too bright. 

But for the boy. 

Of this book. 

It is far from a breath of light. 

 

And as the fears roll down his expressionless face.

He unlocks his sight from the menace of a sight, of an open world. 

And turns, just a tad to the right. 

And down. 

His gaze falls. 

Way way down, to a path, a pathway. 

Familiarity absent. 

 

For the grass and the forests. 

And the clouds of ever-sparing torrent. 

And the paths, and the town, that stood. 

Ahead. 

Ahead of the little boy's eyes. 

 

To your surprise, perhaps too his, a world not structurally like ours. 

Not lies built off bricks, nor bricks built of lies. 

Solely found to be foundation of pages. 

Spines, covers. 

And ink. 

Pencil to paper. 

Creatives’ dream. 

But dreams blanket lies. 

And here within each book. 

Is just. 

Wholly. 

 

Truth. For each and every being. 

Yes- You. 

Me. 

Them. 

Him. 

Her. 

That librarian. 

That bus driver. 

That teacher. 

 

The truth of all. 

 

And truth wants to say ‘hi :)’

But. 

 

He pushes it away. 

Again. 

 

And closes his eyes. 

Again. 

 

The fizz of the rays, eyelids solar red. 

 

‘Do it. ’

Red fades to black. 

 

 

‘No need to think about it. ’

Black fades to blue. 

 

‘It's the only thing left.’

Blue fades to green. 

 

‘Embrace it, let it take you, let your mind take it, that's all there is to do.’

Green fades to nothing. 

Now a millenia away from reality. 

 

“Is it done?” Throat trying to break down and out. 

Nothing fades to white. 

“Am I gone?”

White fades to black. 

Torso melting. 

“Was I wrong?”

Black fades. 

Silence ~

 

“What have I become?” ‘What have you become!’

“Tell me?” ‘Tell yourself!’

“NO! Tell me!” ‘Tell me then?’

“Please?” ‘You should know!’

“please.” ‘Open your eyes, open your eyes.”

 

Eyes open. 

 

Pupils drown in light. 

 

Again. 

 

Eyes wash ashore, for upon their vision, a path.

Same as before, yet now speaking. 

 

Not with words, but yet all to be heard: “follow, follow”

 

He looks to the bricks of books, thinks, and one by one, steps he took. 

 

Tick and a tock and a tick yet again. 

Time spiralling. 

But life closes its eyes. 

Worlds are much too much to see, so let his eyes ease, and ears see. 

 

Wind on the pages, in the tree on the field, in the soil on the path. 

Relax, relax. 

Clouds look down, smile. ‘Please smile back?’

The world begging for an ounce of joy reciprocated back. 

Buttercups looking up at the feet coming down, not in fear, not at all, for they have lived to be trodden and forgotten. 

 

Stomp. On the grass blades. Sharp as the clouds. 

As the trees leave behind their leaves behind him. 

Stomp in the fields, yet to follow, stuck in place, left behind. 

Grass and dirt and flowers and trees and leaves are left too, behind. 

 

Yet the clouds follow, not in sorrow, but hoping for a sunny tomorrow. 

And as they slow their follow, hear the volume hollow. 

As the sprint becomes a jog, becomes a walk, becomes a stroll. 

 

Open your eyes. 

Eyes full with new light, whole. 

 

And beyond his feet, architecture of new and old. 

 

Behold. 

One building stands high, so high that clouds smile and wave back. 

And say ‘hi.’ With rain! 

 

Rain pours, so much, so much, ‘Why so much?’, ‘Why?’

Boy runs fast yet again but yet with a goal and fumbles into a room, embodying a church, the roof looms far far far above his head. 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

And he heads for the corner. 

Legs nearly breaking from his journey. 

A stitch.

As his torso melts. 

He must freeze time. 

Again. 

So he sits. 

To think back to a time. 

 

His mind, a poet, yet confined by the fear of life. 

What a life. 

 

“I want to cry.”

~

“And yet I do know why!”

~

“I always have but yet I don’t.”

~

“And I can't, I'm stuck, inside my own mind.”

 

His eyes scream themselves open from surprise. 

~

“Who was that?!”

A wind embraces the panes of every stained window of ink. 

“What do you mean?”

The breeze freezes to see a boy in tears kneeled on his very own knees. 

“Why would I stop crying if the world is lying? This isn't real; am I dead?”

The gust thrusts its existence towards a door, and to his head it's led. 

~

 

“No I haven't been here before?”

The air around the frame flinches. 

“How do you know me?”

The air pressure presses against his left knee. 

“The hell do you mean? But I don't own a story?”

The very life around him tenses, as if to say:

‘We have all read your story.’

 

“Wait.”

Surrounding freeze. 

“My story?”

Breeze still, but slightly pissed. 

“No, I won't stop asking questions!”

And it climbs up to his ear. 

“Fine, I'll close my eyes.”

And time does slow. 

Slow.

 Slow.

   Slow.

     Slow.

       Slow.

         Slow. 

Focus. 

And focus. “Focus?” Yes, focus. “Okay?”

And he does focus. So hard. More than he has ever before. 

World dissolves, not in decay. 

Mind evolved? 

Tomorrow may even come today! 

~

“Am I learning? What do you actually mean by that?”

Actually open your eyes. “Okay,” he says through his mind. 

 

To his feet, just right there, it sat. 

A cat. 

“A cat?”

It nods back with certainty. 

-

Now, you and me chat. Because this was not just a cat. 

You see reader, stroking a cat is what most people do. 

But as this cat moves, it leaves writing, for the fur is not of fur. 

But of ink. 

Just to think that a thing should exist in a world, is much to comprehend. 

But, as with many writers, and excuse as old as time; that this isn't a world like yours or mine. 

So scrap any logic. For this world is held by books. 

So I hope as you hold this book, you don't scratch your head at the things that matter not in this world of fake. 

 

Now back to it

-

Footprints print feet on paper under't. 

As it circles the boy. 

A perfect circle. 

 

Boy looks down at the eyes at which look up. 

Cat smiles. Boy does not. 

Cat nods at this. 

~

“Follow?”... 

~

“Okay.”

~

Low rumbles of all the sounds cats could make echo against the church walls. 

Door opens. Boy and Cat leave. 

 

“What's your name?”

The cat keeps walking. 

“Umm… I asked you a question?”

The cat keeps walking. 

 

“The weather's nice today isn't it?...”

Cat turns, it's eyes roll. 

“I don't know how to talk to cats, okay?”

Cat nods, and keeps walking. 

“Do you know where we are?”

~

“A second world?” Boy speaks in confusion. 

Yes, this is, for millenia, a second world. 

“But why am I here?”

~

“Why do you keep saying ‘to learn’?!” Frustration. 

~

“Learn what?”

It turns to face him. 

Looks down. 

And slaps him on the knee. 

~

~~

“Yeah… You're right. I do ask a lot of questions.”

“But can you blame me?”

No, the cat cannot. 

 

“Will you at least answer one question then?”

It was as if the wind nodded. 

“Okay?”

The cat's eyes say ‘no…’

“That wasn't my question!”

 

“Actually, wait a minute?”

 

Cat freezes. 

“What do you mean, you are not okay?”

The boy looks at the cat with genuine concern. 

The breeze sighs in loneliness. 

“So we are all alone in here then?”

Cat nods. 

“Wait.”

Cat freezes. Again. 

“So… before me?”

Cat shakes it's head. 

“Oh.”

And the cat turns around. 

And unfreezes. 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Boy asks, at a slight strolling pace. 

In tears. Again. 

 

And then stops. 

 

No longer a strolling pace, for beyond them, held above ground and below sky. 

A wondrous sight. 

“Woah.”

Not much else to say, I guess. 

“This is amazing!”

For such a sight was amazing. 

Bricks of books climb the boys field of view. 

All of it. 

Such a mountainous idea of a place. 

 

And. 

Within the center of this dream, an arched frame of golden paper. 

And within the space in which this spectacular sight stains, encircled within the gold, a door. 

“That is a damn massive door!”

It was a damn massive door. 

 

And to the left, a feline leap was to be witnessed upon a sill beheld behind by windows of marvelous ink. 

~

The cat straight up phases through. 

For as I had said before this:

Rules are not within mentality. 

 

And as for logic may confuse, a being of ink, may in fact pass through ink. 

 

So as bewilderment strung across his face. The boy, with all his physical strength, although not much, let the door glide for somewhat of a boy-sized gap. 

And as the cat slips through, 

He follows too. 

 

 

Chapter 3 

 

The echo echo echo off the walls. 

From the door and from the boy in awe. 

~

“Look up? 

Steps lead to steps, lead to steps, lead to steps. 

Each step beside a shelf. 

Each shelf under many books. 

Each book around the pages. 

Each page around a story. 

And up further he looks. 

The roof so far far far above. 

Lights shine shine shine through it. 

Yellow green and blue stained glass scatter across the dome of a roof. 

And at the top. 

At the very very very top. 

There is one book. 

His book. 

Freedom. 

At least that's what the cat said. 

“Shall we climb?”

Not yet, boy, you must be ready to meet your life. 

The cat shakes it's head. 

“Tell me what to do?”

The cat shakes it's head. 

 

“What are you looking for within me?”

The cat smiles, but shakes it's head. 

And the boy sits. 

He sits, he sits, he sits. 

But he does not cry. 

He thinks, he thinks he thinks. 

And he does. 

And he stands. 

He stands, he stands, he stands. 

And he walk. 

He walks over to a shelf. 

And looks at the shelf. 

To a book. 

Shining. 

Glowing bright yellow. 

“I think it wants me to read it?”

Boy laughs, cat smiles. 

“Do you want to read it?”

The cat laughs, but shakes it's head. 

And the boy picks up the book. 

And he reads it. 

He reads it, he reads it, he reads it. 

 

“The man who tried three times”

“

A man, he stood, quite tall, quite short. 

Who knows, not many people really needed to know. 

Nobody really spoke to the man of the lighthouse. 

A day, as of all, he woke to a call from the birds, oh so loud. 

As of all the birds' sounds. 

And he walked to the window and jumped. 

Almost. 

He woke, in a world unlike his own. 

With leaves of paper and ink in stone. 

And he met a life form. 

Not one like him. 

A machine, of ink, but yet still so clean

‘Well hello there little robot, I suppose I'm a little lost. Do you know perhaps, where I went wrong?’

But it says nought a word, and it walks to a book. 

‘Is this your son?’

The man fell. 

To his knees. 

And he begged and he cried. 

‘Oh please, don't remind me, he is why I'm here, she is why I am here, and I don't want to hold a grudge.’

‘Your son is dead, he never got to walk these grounds, for he did not try to take his life like you. And yet you will die unless you learn to just accept the truth’

The man got up and he slapped the metal of a face. 

‘Do you not have sympathy?!’

‘Do you not know what it's like to lose a loved one?!’

‘Do you know what it's like to know I could've saved him, and I could've saved her!’

Not a river, but a flood of tears roll down the sloped step. 

And he falls back to his knees. 

‘If I am to be brought back to my home, if I were to learn a lesson, first I must make you learn a lesson.’

The robot looked confused. 

 

‘I cry at all the sad in my life. 

And because of all the crying, 

I cry at all the good in my life, 

For I have never known what to do when I'm happy. 

And then when the tears dry. 

I don't cry at the good in my life

Nor the sad. 

But I don't smile. 

I cannot. 

When I know I don't deserve the happiness. 

 

So I try to stop it all. 

I try so goddamn hard. 

To stop all the thoughts. 

Without removing my mind. 

But I can't. 

So I jumped. 

That is why. 

That is why I am here for the third time. 

And that is why I am here to help you, so you can help others quieten their own minds.

And that is why I need to help you understand why we must quieten our own minds.’

 

And the man spent every second of every hour of every minute of every day of every year of every month of every week. 

Oh he felt so weak. 

But he tried so hard, and he never gave in. 

Never gave up. 

Never again. 

And within the second year. 

A newborn was born. 

Not of baby, not of human. 

But of progress. 

 

‘Look at you!’

‘You're amazing!’

~

‘Your very welcome’

The cat cried. 

‘Emotion! See! At last!’

The man smiled. 

‘This is what it's like to be free, savor it whilst it lasts. Oh you remind me so much of my son, and so much of my daughter, and with all of my skills, you shall feel just like them too, that's what I have taught you.’

And after many months of sheer persistence, he looks to the stars at such a distance. 

And he picks up a book, with his name written on it. 

And he reminisces on how much he values his existence.

“

And the boy closes the book, he puts it back on the shelf. 

And he looks to the cat, and the cat does not looks back. 

But the boy smiles. 

And the cat cant help but do too. 

‘You are sick, you do realise that?’

The cat giggled, the hoy did too. 

And he locked eyes with the feline, “You can share your feelings, I am here too, I am here and I can too help you. Is there a way that you can make it out of this place?”

The cat nods, and then quickly shakes his head. 

~

Well the only way is up anyway, I'm sure there'll be a way, don't you worry. 

Said the boy to the cat, yesterday.

 

 

Chapter 4 

 

Up. Up. Up.

Up. Up. Up. 

Step by step.

Step by step. 

Book by book

By book by book. 

 

And book by book, a book took the boy’s look away from in front. 

 

“Look. This book is bright green. Surely that's got to mean something, surely?”

~

The cat smiles. 

Such a fake smile. 

But a smile alas. 

~

The boy picks it up. 

Hand firm on spine. 

Removing shelf from it. 

And dust topples over the edges. 

And splashes to the floor. 

 

And he opens it. 

 

The cat wanders off, scared. 

Unsure of it's emotions. 

 

And as the dust settles. 

Words may rest, up in the mind and eyes of the boy, like blood red petals. 

 

The Story of the Girl Who Lost The Beauty Within Her Very Own Heart

 

The sheer presence, the essence of this literary spectacle turned in each page. 

And eyes smiled and smiled and smiled at each page turn. 

~

The cat's absent smile said to stop. 

Yet breeze said to turn to the end. 

 

And boy did, and in his head he read the black ink on pages almost torn out. 

 

“I saved his life. 

I felt a beauty in my heart. 

And as he turns, I feel a beauty in my heart. 

The sun, the sun it moves. 

Moon moved by the beating of such a beauty in my heart. 

 

Such a pristine walk home, so pretty. 

The sky, grey from smiling, yet still smiling alas. 

And I giggled, for his stories he told to me inspired. 

And he giggled, for stories I told from the beauty in my heart. 

And the moon walked us home that night. 

 

But sleep never spoke to me. Eyes opened. 

 

3 am. What the hell. 

 

A shatter of sound, a bang on a wall. 

I turn, he turns. 

A drunken sailor on a sea of confusion. 

And I see in the confusion. 

Between the beauty in our hearts. 

Stood a blade. 

And -

~

It leapt upon me in anguish, I swept my existence to the left, it cried out in disappointment, I cried in disappointment, and we cried. 

It leapt upon my cheek, red red, red! 

 

Red. How. How could he? Red. 

It fell. The knife did not. 

For it-

~

Leapt upon my hand. 

And I grasp it's steely hands. 

And as I look beyond a vanishing quiet.

Sound vanishes. 

And as I let the knife leap upon his hopeless head. 

 

All the beauty in my heart. 

It vanishes. 

 

And I lay. 

 

Open, beauty had a leak from within my heart. 

 

And I wielded the tool at which had took the mind of his, and I took. 

 

I took away all the remaining beauty from within my screaming heart.”

 

“Oh.”

The boy took a step back. 

Swallowed. 

 

A silence within all. 

For at least a few minutes. 

 

“Why won't you ever speak to me?”

“Is this why?”

“I'm truly sorry if it is, but please… talk to me!”

“You cannot be on your own here.”

“It's lonely. You do not want to be lonely.”

“Be my friend. I will get you out of here”

If there is a way it'd be at the top. 

Is what the boy thought, and the cat did not do much to try to stop. 

A step. 

“So from what I understand…”

A step. 

“I need to find value within my existence?”

The cat takes another step, but yet looks back and takes it's time to nod. 

“Okay, well I will try, I promise I will try so goddamn hard, for if I can't get out of here, how would I ever get you out of here, my friend.”

The cat's eyes glow, in a sorrowful but respectful way. 

 

“I remember a poem a friend used to tell, how they found meaning in their life, to help them make it through their tough college days. I can read it to you if you want, for it's not just me who should learn, but you should too. 

And I'll see what exactly he did, what he used. To feel a value in his very own existence.”

 

And as the boy finished with the poem, the cat looked up with sheer love for the air all around it, and the boy smiled and he looked to the sky, and he hugged it, and he knew what he'd had to do. 

 

“He knew that he didn't have a love for many things. But the things he chased because he loved them, they only got worse the more he chased. So he stopped, he didn't give up, he just stopped and thought for a while. That with his passion, it's HIS passion. So he should not make it for others to enjoy, but solely for him to enjoy. And if others enjoy it too, then goddamn, a day like that would retire the sadness from within his heart. But for now he chose to focus on himself. No meditating. No extra sleep, still writing poetry at 3 am. 

But he realised that he can recreate his best memories, by just embracing the things that truly mattered within his memories. Not people, but who said you cannot hug the grass and the trees and the air. And smile at the clouds, who have always wanted you to smile back.”

 

“And, well, what I remember, that I love, is my love for animals. So I will love all animals with all of every last ounce of life within my living heart. All of them. Even the robot cats, even the locked up cows and pigs and sheep and chickens. Even the pigeons and crows and geese and turtles and toads and deer lay hurt on the road. Even the humans. Yes, even the filthy, dirty, no-good, useless, unworthy humans. 

For I believe that some humans are nice, clean, good, useful, worthy human beings. 

And I believe that that can be said same about all animals. 

Including you. 

And including me. 

So that is why I need to live for every last second. 

So I can help to help every species that needs my help. 

And that is what I value. 

That is my existence. 

And I value it with all of me. 

And I value you with all of me. 

So now I know my existence is not futile, I know yours isn't too. 

You will come with me.”

 

The cat had burst into tears of ink 20 seconds ago, and is now standing within a pen leak. 

And the boy picks up the cat. 

And takes many more steps. 

                    Up. 

               Up. 

          Up. 

     Up. 

Up. 

And up. 

And up. 

And up. 

And up. 

The stairs. 

They lead. 

To more. 

Stairs. 

Up. 

Up. 

Up. 

Up. 

And look. 

The steps lead to steps. 

Lead to steps. 

Lead to a book. 

 

And the glow of the gold around the book of bright blue. 

Made the ink cats eyes fade. 

And made the boy's eyes grow. 

 

“Is this it?”

“I could prolong it.”

“But why would I?”

“This is the way home.”

“And it's your way home.”

“So see you, goodbye, and I hope that me living up to all that I need to be, is enough to give you some value in your heart, in your own existence. Please.”

 

And the boy reaches for the literature. 

And he turns the glowing page. 

This is the end of the world for a little boy. 

But not the end of an age. 

 

And the boy turns around from the edge of the bridge on earth. 

And he walks back home. 

With a cat at his side. 

 

They are home. 

Where they know. 

Where they are known. 

Where they are never ever ever ever alone. 

Where the brightness from the sky and the sun and grass and the trees and the hills, all relight the beauty within two repaired hearts. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boy's Friend's Poem

 

To literally anyone in the world. 

Because although music has changed my life, at the age 16 where i still have sooo much more life ahead that they have butterfly affected, 

 

Literally everybody in this world has got me to this point via any small action. So thank you. 

And give yourself a smile. Look at the ground and touch it.

 

Try to let out a single tear onto the earth, for it cries every day, so please give it comfort. 

 

And for you people who cannot physically cry onto the ground right now for any particular reasons. Literally just embrace the air in front of you, hug it in your mind. And smile :) 

And just goddamn look up at the sky. 

Whether grey or blue or red or white. 

Let it smile back. 

And nurture your world. 

Look at the fucking sky! 

 

With the grass to the side and the sky in the sky. 

I decide that I'll lie here and lay down to die. 

Not here with me now, nor here when we part. 

Just singing within every inch of my heart! 

(Breathe out pls for like 10 seconds. feel the breeze, whether there, or in your memories. ) 

Breathe in the air of the world. 

Literally nothing needs to work at all. 

Just close your eyes and imagine skies. 

That lay down and say hi, and feed you breeze until you cry. 

Turn to your side. 

Shake and let it all goddamn out. 

The tears that tear your whole existence. 

Stitch them into every crack. 

Hush. 

Ask the world anything. 

The sky won't lie. 

(So just breathe in for five) 

The sky in the sky won't lie. 

Not for you. 

You're worth every single bit of every single truth. 

Every single cell deserves everything we do. 

As a planet, as a being, as an existence in this universe. 

You don't have to sing this verse. 

It's up to you, so here it was. 

 

Do you remember the days of buttercups? 

You'd smile with friends, and other people too. 

Everyone would smile. 

They may push you over. 

You may push them over. 

Face in the dirt and grass. 

Why would that ever be seen as bad? 

The smell and the taste of the soil and the dew. 

And the grass. 

Oh the grass. 

The greenest lushest path. 

Path of nature, Nurture. 

This beautiful feeling. 

Reminisce it like I do. 

I couldn't do it without any of you. 

It feels so goddamn cringe. 

But fuck it, thoughts are goddamn cringe 

So let me appreciate all who have enlisted all my thoughts to dream at last. 

 

I'll start from the current moment, lay in my bed, with literally tons of homework to do. 

But I have just been sitting here thinking watching 3 hours of YouTube. 

Music, you nurture my soul. 

With every ounce of your whole. 

 

It's not parasocial. 

If you literally have me crying on the floor. 

It's not an obsession, it's just appreciation. 

I appreciate every single move you make. 

Spit your fire, do it please. 

It hollows out our heart. 

Fill it with snow. 

So fresh, so cold, so stationary. 

So static like a home. 

Tragic but at home. 

You make me feel at home. 

Yet I've never felt at home. 

So is this my home?

I goddamn hope it is. 

 

We make me realise. 

That I don't need to learn to make music, to make myself happy. 

It felt like all these ideas hadn't come to life until I had completed something. 

I'd tried and failed, and I cried, and sailed an endless sea of doubt and debt of sleep and work.

I was trying to feel alive. 

It didn't work. 

A mirror lay at my side. 

 

But yeah, I tried to feel alive, and it didn't work

Why would it? 

These are ideas, within my head. 

And they mean less to you, more to me instead.

Surely

Then surely. 

Then surely 

Then surely. 

Then surely. 

Then surely I can just be making and taking in memories one by one in the moment, in the sun, and feel an ocean flood my lungs. 

 

No longer tight, I'm smiling. 

Still stressing.

Got so much work to do. 

But yet I write. 

Well I type. 

But yet I type still. 

I laugh bcs this is so open. 

Too open. 

I don't want to share it. 

So for that exact reason. 

I will. 

But I can't have favourites, so I'm my favourite.

 

Remember it's not obsession, it's just appreciation. 

I must be a fan of myself. 

And there is nothing wrong with that. 

 

So I may sing these words. 

I'm sure you can't complain. 

If I just repeat the lyrics of my favourite song, my favourite words.

Worlds were insane, but nurture had me made. 

So. 

Look at the sky, I'm still here. 

So fucking alive, in here. 

I will make something good. 

For me or for all, it does not matter at all. 

All will not matter so make yourself matter for you, and just exist to feel good. 

Look at the sky. 

I'm still here. 

I'll be alive next year. 

I will make something good. 

I will. 

I will make something good. 

 

So look at the sky

I'm still here. 

I'll be alive. 

Next year. 

I will. 

I will. 

I will. 

I will make something. 

I will. 

It'll be good. 

I will. 

For me. 

For me. 

For me. 

For me. 

Maybe for you. 

But no pressure if I don't or do. 

Or do. 

I will. 

I will. 

I heal. 

I'll heal. 

I'll smile. 

I'll feel. 

 

So one more time. 

And for many times beyond. 

I'll smile at the grass to my left and my right. 

And the sky in the sky and the sky in the pond. 

And I'll smile. And I'll cry. 

And I'll style my life. 

How I want to. 

Not because of fear. 

Because I looked at the sky. 

And I find that both we and I are still here. 

 

For now, tonight, and for further light. 

It's not goodbye now. 

It's hi. 

:)