The most tragic. 

What, the chains 

of self. That I, am the 

one; binding myself to 

this Hell. I am giving up 

that my time has already 

passed. Giving myself but a 

number, in this world where I’ve 

been cast. 


West Side 

Tight jeans. Too tight. 

Faces looking younger, 

than I swear I ever looked. 

That loss of time. 

That loss of care. 

That optimism. 

It’s not there. 

An upper twenty 

who doesn’t want to stop 

being a person. 

Built to Split 

No one left to talk to 

about it. My inner voice,

the small sound. Your 

small sound that I still 

hear; please tell me that 

you never heard it at all.

That I, am the only one 

with such reality.