Sundays & Sentiment.

Young minds carved by anger. We’re the scars of a world instinctively violent. Essence without guidance, dreams without pilots. The gift of life that we so generously receive leaves us prone to a society already cursed and naïve. Aimlessly we search for the meaning of life by giving a ring, living our life by a book, or even searching for it in a syringe.

Prone to addiction, a victim to all women, blessed with a thirst for wisdom, I’ve done some real dumb drunk shit and often find myself convinced I deserve forgiveness, when the sickness I have is self-inflicted.

Always running away, always pushing up the hill, living for the thrill of it. Never looking down, just in awe of what’s in front of me. Though I can’t see the person I want to be, and my reflection is changing all the time. I know that one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be a boy not a man, prospering in a headspace that I’ve grown up believing I would never own.

These are the confessions I write in silence. I’ve lied, stolen from thy neighbour, fornicated and swore that no one is my saviour. My behaviour may be blasphemy, but will it all come back to me? I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.

I’m falling away, fading away. Looking for a way out of this place.
What else can I say? This isn’t where I want to finish the race.

Don’t stop; just keep going on, you’ll find a shoulder to lean upon.