(as islands)

My brain is a bomb in the gilded hand of a young punk set up to save the world in the face of creature comforts and the confounds of security most folks spend their whole desperate hours trying their best to fucking achieve.

But he could give a shit.

Sometimes the fires worth the sake of the glow and smell of smoke. there doesn't need to be a cause. a riot. a revolutionary tract pinned to the back of the man whose got no rise in this life but to bring us down to a nice innocuous size.

Sometimes it's just a pleasure to burn.

Long and hard and out of reach where no love can find you smoldering. where hope ceases to exist not for lack of trying but for a glaring lack of sympathy.

Where strange men stand proud and syssiphian, grinding against the rock alone without even so much as an inkling that there will be a moment when the crest is broken and they can stand as free as the day they first stole the warmth of heaven for all us naked shivering humanity.

And though i wouldn't dare say i have the courage to walk alongside them, i would like to think there's a part of me that understands a few shades better than i should.

I'd like to think that some part of their empty fight boils somewhere inside of me.