Part One

How young I once became,
Kissing other youngsters,
Thinking myself aged, matured,
Sedated in the image of myself
That still remains the same.

How old I have become,
And yet still only twenty,
I have not seen enough
Not breathed enough,
To want to go home now.

I have no trouble finding hope
In the aftermath of ruckus,
I find a block in a pile of dirt,
And I glee.

I have no trouble
Seeing myself dead
Or alive beside my family,
But now imagining myself
Is painted by everything
I no longer have a need to accomplish.

The aftermath of videos, bottles,
Rafts, clams, sand, shoes,
Colours, makeup, words, the world,
Is that I am still searching for the same,
Finding only the new in the past
And the future.

Living has become like dying,
With every stroke, brush,
Every inhaled breath of repentance.