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The bar I set,

the mold I shape,

there is no place

now, no escape.

I went too high

and yelled too loud,

and rose too fast

just for the crowd.

But there's no use.

I spent too much,

wasted my time,

and lost my touch.

I'm going down

this hill so fast.

I didn't mean

that was my last.

Just trying to

recapture what

I used to have,

to find my strut.

I'm not sure what

this really means,

but this is a

new beginning.

It's partially my fault, I guess

for getting us into this mess.

I've never been good under the press,

and never liked such fast progress,

but now I'm simply faced with this.

Trying to get a shot (I'll miss)

and hoping for a chancannoying acts

or the fatal cracks

in our made-up shields,

and our fake force-fields.

We're all more vulnerable

than we like to admit,

even if lying gets us

into some dark, deep s**t.

So it's a disaster

coming one of these days,

and we could help each other

but we're rather be "okay."e (what bliss).

Set it up for that sweet kiss,

off the back end

and we'll begin

again.

Rewind.

Wasn't that what I said last time?

Promised that I'd have better rhyme.

Such a steep climb,

and I CAN'T.

Why should it be a crime

if you can't achieve what you did the first time?

It gets harder as you go, you know,

especially when you're hitting the road solo.

And every day you expect to grow,

or at least find something you didn't know.

Improve your craft, just take it slow,

but be fast enough that it clearly shows.

God damn my fingers are freezing off,

fighting the cough, just to bring you content.

More books, more poems, but they'll never be content.

Fighting against my slow computer,

these fat commuters on their way to hooters,

get a real life man, or get a real woman.

It's not attractive how you act, what you're brewing.

Most people want somebody with a sense

of right and wrong, weak and strong, or at least a privacy fence.

So keep your Facebook feelings to yourself, chap,

or you're about to find yourself slapped, chap.

Go home and get yourself a backslap

from whoever feeds you after your nap.

The way I feel

is too surreal.

I can't express,

or start to address,

the 

There's a catastrophe

and it's only miles away,

but instead of building walls

we'll be burning bridges.