Small hands picking up cigarettes off pubescent sidewalks,
Lighting them by fires held in my palms,
Seeking, seeking the last of the nicotine that comes,
From the butts of a filter where there is no tobacco.
My head swells with ideas of greatness
At words that I pump out with my fists
Great adolescent dreams, easily forsaken
for a suit and tie and a wad of fat, steaming cash.
Note books littered with microwaveable fax numbers,
Of Psychologists who I no longer wish to see anymore,
And priests whom have long since forgotten me,
And my teachers, some of whom despise my existance.
All, in the end, lost to cause.
Lost to the invertible feeling of loss.
When Agricola stopped being a farmer.
And my true nature gave way to hallucination.
Nowhere seen is the truth anymore.
Self-pity is my own reliance.
Hatred is my only defense.
Yet I care not for these trivialities anymore.
Smoke rises from my home,
And homes across the border where millions of people live,
And breathe, and think, and feel.
And there it is.
My hope, my joy,
A renewal of Christian-atheistic fellowship
No longer just a pity party,
But exclusive to those who love one another.
This is who I want to be.
A person who loves,
Not for the sake of any return,
But for the sake of my own sanity.
Time flows on and life changes,
Things that seem the same now will soon explode,
Into varying levels of exuberance and debris,
Still no one can take away my feeling of warmth.
When the tide is over, when the war is won,
No one now can say if I am just another one.

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