Youth

Perpetually ponder about conquering fright,

design a framework for aforementioned existence, 

to feel what it feels to be passionate,

an asexual promise to oneself,

without lust without want without nefarious thought.

We forget feeling in fear,

an obfuscated truth lies behind contrived notions.

Believe, and if reassurance departs, learn. 

Travel down an overrated path,
surrender to the damp thought that prunes your fingertips,
a head-rush, a phone call, one you've been waiting for.
It's to exert the meaninglessness of any realm of being.
The dial tone, the lack of breath,
the dying spirit, decaying within a physical mass.
Left to lie, to die within and watch your autophobic mess
become nothing but a walking trail of genetics,
lifeless, material, with an ego that stands in the way.
Question in itself becomes dubious,
skepticism remains thought-crime,
to pin your raging voice to the wall,
to criminalize your potential,
left behind in the port of New Castle,
where you made your last trip on business.
The grand assumption of necessity was dreary,
though you only haphazardly stitched it up
with the worn fingers of conformity that lay at your side,
mechanical and malleable.
When you were laden with illness
and recently turned to prayer
we thought your thoughts had betrayed you,
but as you cradled your last breath,
the infinite words, so seemingly suitable, dripped from your tongue,
"Instruction is the only medium for happiness."
Disappointment shook my core,
almost as if no one had a choice.