There are the highs and lows.

High
When praise is the light
That glides you down  
The corridors of life.
When you've been smoking
All night
Your in another world.

Low
You walk around unnoticed,
Scraps in the wind.
Peoples words pound the
Deepest walls of your self esteem.

High
Confidence.
Fire.
Ambitious.

Low
Depression.
Dark.
Pain.

But sometimes, there will come a time when you can't tell them apart.  
Where the difference between high and low in like trying to figure out if you rather freeze to death or burn to death.

No matter which you choose, they're both lethal.

He has the face of an outmoded brick wall.

She never wears her heart on her sleeve.

He watches the world through
The eyes of a sailor
Anticipating for the storm
And always remaining anxious in the calm waters waiting for the waves.

She listens to what you say
Like the critic to your own novel.
Holding onto each word
And waiting for the slight chance
That you might go back on what you once believed.

He tastes what's around him in small portions.
Because if he ever got the opportunity to taste something so beautiful and unforgettable, his heart would be like pieces of sand on the floor in its absence.

She holds her nose in the smell of trouble as if hypocritical presnece is toxic.
Her lungs will fill up with the lies and ***** secrets of the world and turn them into tar.
She knows once she get that one sniff, she won't ever breathe the same again.

These are the Stone Poets.
The ones who have their eyes on everything.
From the way we blink to the techniques we use to tie our shoelaces, they have got our words and actions down to a personal science.

The Stone Poets are the poets that have to most heart in the words that they say, but you would never guess it was them if you somehow got the enchanting opportunity to look them in the eye.

I said, "don't blame yourself." But I was in over my head. Your excuses were painted on the walls, I fell for them again.

I guess I should have seen it coming. Wanting to pack my bags, and walk out the door.

Different cities would be good; different walls to keep us separated.
Maybe we were better off, only seeing each other once in a while.

That's the worst part- that it came to this. Fragmented stares from across the room. You had this war with you inside; so you gave up the fight. As did I.

Different towns would be good, different roofs for us to call a home.
Maybe we were better off only saying I love you once in a while.

But I fought so hard for this, screamed for you to realize that the heart inside of you is pumping blood. That you were living, that you were real.

Then one night the fury came out. I saw your cold bitter stone
of a thing your supposed to call a heart.

Then I realized.
You were dead a long time ago.

The feeling that you get when your about to lose control, has to be the scariest feeling of all. When too many absentminded people come in and break everything apart- without realizing it- electrify the band that's about to snap. And that's the worst of all. When you have to sit there watch how these people that live around you make countless mistakes. They sit in a pit of oblivion, but you see it all. And when you go off to make one silly mistake, all the walls come crashing down and suddenly your the one who is the burden. These exact people tell you how to live. They tell you that you don't understand time. That your feelings to have no logical sense to them. That your heart is in the wrong place.
Who are they to say that? Who are they to suddenly become you?
Who are they to act like they care?
You can see disappointment in their faces and you have the guts to believe it. Their  hosts have become clay sculptures- unmendable. Made to dry up and become nothing but a piece on a shelf.
It takes everything within you to not become that.
But it's okay.
Because at least your the only one out of all of them that knows what it takes to live.

I only have this
Heart of mine.

Absentminded hands
Rip me part by part.

The pieces are the sand
Beneath my feet.

My tears are the waves
Kissing the shore
Putting them back together.

The thunder is rumbling
In the backyard.

The rain is pouring down
On my soul.

I grab the keys
And put this car in drive
To the water.

I set sail across the ocean.
Tearing these rough seas
On my own.

A sailor.
A compass.
A steerin wheel.

Destenation: home.