Question marks are met with periodsBy people full of arroganceThey have every answer, nothing mysteriousAnd yet they have no evidence.

I don’t want safety or guarantees—I want a life worth living.I want to jump off a skyscraperAnd fashion a parachute on the way downOut of my fears and trepidationsBecause sometimes survivalIsn’t the most important thingAnd survivingIsn’t the same as living.

I remember sitting in bed, as a childlooking up at the ceilingI couldn’t sleep, of course,And so set about to thinkingI wondered, what are dreams made of?Are they stardust and galaxies?Are they the tendrils of existenceReaching inwards from eternity?

What is it about growing olderThat bites venomously Into the neck of hope?

We talk so much yet we have nothing to say.

It is such a pity how some peopleAre dead long before their hearts stop beating.

They give us eighteen years To figure out how to spend our lives;We’re pushed towards high-paying careersAt the cost of letting our dreams die.

As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.

Real life is just another stage.Just another stage where I have to look and actLike I have everything put together;everything neat, perfect, and in order,when in reality I’m slowly dying,Slowly decaying, screaming and clawing,at this little box I’ve been put into, Trying desperately to escape.