Young Smoke.

It's all a mistake, I'm all
nightmares of going up in flames,
but I wake up and there's not
even a spark to keep me going,
not even the dying fumes of a
single hopeful moment.

Huh, I thought it was funny,
how the pain makes everything
stop, a little button to play
hide and seek in the dark, I
thought I'd found the answer,
a way to feel without collapsing.

I've thought about it, I've
entertained impossible ideas
before, of never growing up, of
always being as small in size as
I am in significance, but you can't
stay young forever unless you die.

When I thought I had been running
I had actually been left behind,
a stunted soul drifting through a one
way lane, my limbs kept going but
everything else, all that is supposed
to matter, died - refused to move on.

And I bite my lips, crawl in bed
to cold dead silence, thinking that
change won't be the answer, because
the sickness keeps, stays to make a
home out of the hollowness inside me,
there's no punctuation to this ending.

Could I ever say this things out
loud? Does it matter? It doesn't, not
really, it's like pulling undergrowth
from the ground, it comes back whenever
it wants and, I'm tired, all too weary
to let flowers bloom in their place.