Sonic was the man.
He was cool.
Until he went too fast.
Goodbye Sonic...

Yes, we can talk in secret
You brought me flowers?
Thank you

No, you're not like them
Not like the other guys
Yes, you're special

Why?
Well, you got a mole right there
No, the one on your forearm

Serious, though
I like your mindset
Open-minded

Oh, more?
I think you have the prettiest eyes
You blinked

Yes, I love them
Close my eyes?
Now, me

Really? Kind?
That's lame
Okay, fine

I do believe you
Cool, I'm cool
You, too

I'm down
We can go now
Yeah, just us

I often find myself staring in awe of immortal things. Though my hands haven't always been there, they have always been there for me. And though I can't fully grasp the concept, I know one day my hands will be gone. Or at least the molecules will be changed to some other form. Maybe ash, or maybe dirt. Maybe my hands will be the fuel for some tree when I die, a tree that will be cut down for paper for a guy who has enough talent to write words that actually make people cry. Maybe not. Yet somehow I feel young, a lie made true by the pain I feel in my shoulders, like the old man inside is pacing back and forth on them not at all happy with how many more decades he'll have to wait before he can finally come out saying,"Ahh...now my shoulders really hurt." I just hope my old man has cool hair when he comes, and cool hair when he dies.

A fiery bush paints the surface of my soul with desolation

Venomous air leads to my dreadful silent suffocation

I know fear is manifested through our imagination

But I can still feel its tormenting hopeless paralyzation

I agonizingly die within when I'm in isolation

My dark sinister thoughts talk with strong elaboration

More and more my broken earthly vessel is salvation