On Crashing

God, Man, none of this is real. It's just little girls scribbling Crayola on the walls. The ripples on the lake tearing through trembling reflections of a militia of lost boys just like you; a hundred thousand runaways stare back in the tide at you standing alone on the rocks with your faltering flask, a weapon that seems to work a little bit less every time the sky falls or the city burns to ashes. Maybe it's time to put away that dark cringing heart and let your lips melt down your face to mingle with the soil. I see a thousand fire flies beneath your skin bursting like popcorn over an open camp fire in the eyes of that same little girl, gripping her crayon and jabbing it through your stomach neat and clean like those military runaways with their bayonets in history text books we ignored when we were younger. Whether you drown in this moment and that flask or just drift off the meddling fumes towards the moon's light, you'll find few things faint and distressed as your fragile body can hang around for very long. So you'll drop towards the waters or bob straight to the top, but your famous first breathes will be as beautiful and boisterous as history texts burning in that camp fire and the wind guiding the smoky remains of all good and bad of recorded mankind to the same murky moon light or scaley lake bottom that you sought on that night on the rocks with that old flask when you tried to give up and awoke the next morning drenched on the rocks by the lake, cold and alone and alive for the first and last time.