I am not sorry.
I have done nothing so wrong
to deserve silence.

Rolling wheels eat tar.
I travel north once again
with thoughts battling.

Broken dreams are made
by men too careless to look
ahead of themselves.

We shattered ourselves
upon the altar of dreams
put me together.

I like getting high,
feeling the smoke take over,
kissing Mary Jane.

I can know the end,
but what is the difference
from the beginning?

We, who walk through rain,
stay just as dry as those who
think to run instead.

A battlefield lies
upon my rosewood fret board.
Finger soldiers fight.

Pictures locked in skin
shine outward as if a dream.
Tattooed forever.