When I was young I wanted to be a firefighter
but when I grew up I only became an arsonist
I wanted to sail but instead I sank
needed love not rape, 
to whisper in deaf ears not shout.
What’s my point?

The point as I see it is this..
Control over whom or what we become
how we turn out the decisions we make
right or wrong left or right people we love or hate
well it’s all just rudderless fate

My life is written with an ink fountain pen
It’s messy blotchy each day a mistake
I used to try and cross them out
pulling pages like hair, tried to ignore the tear
But it leaves its mark, each slip imparts
on me my very own personal tragedy
My book will never be perfect

Every fucked up day, not written in sand
to be Wind swept and blown
no slate to wipe clean
I’m scared to the bone.
I can’t deny who I am
dwell on what might have been
No mask to slip but here is my tip

Be blinkered live
each day for that day
24 hours make this your start and your end.
Murderer or Saint
Hold on to this!
Because there’s nothing you can do
About being you