He’s a home-wrecker,

I swore I’d never be.

But do I hate myself more?

I’m spontaneous,

wild,

a romantic,

a bohemian revolutionary;

but there’s no class or elegance left.

Perhaps in the word of a genius,

“Wise beyond my years,”

Where do I find you in my life?

What page?

I didn’t lie you’re a proper legend mate,

another chapter,

be my bird,

no, be you.

I’m dangerous, an enigma,

normal, drugs,

alcohol, medication.

I’m not sick but I am,

I’m not normal but more than a schizophrenic.

Psychology. Maybe it is just a cigar.

I want to grab you,

pull you close and throw back my head,

reach high and far to the sky,

but I know the fall is long and hard and my neck will hurt if I look up for too long.

So I’ll stare straight ahead and keep moving,

move to the rhythm and beat of everyday life.

I wont be compelled to look back because I know if I do for too long my neck will hurt.