I feel my blood boil, No, It simmers. There is not enough heat Nor is there enough fuel. There is no passion, But rather a dull will to move forward, Or perhaps a deadened desire To keep from falling back.
Life imitates art. Yet, Here I stand, Hand in heart And a smile I forgot to wipe. I thought I brought You with me, And yet I brought what ought not to be sought. A vile, Villanous, Vivid, Memory of the past.