Removed.

Slip on the coat and buckle
And fasten. Outdate the latest
Fashion. Taste the ink that's
On the paper. Feel alive tonight.
Make some sense of this mess
Keep your faith but don't you
Hold on to it too tightly, for
It'll be pried from your fingers

Passing notes on airlines
Paper airplanes en route
To their final destinations.
Making their final approach.

When you wake up in the morning
And take a sip from your glass of
Water and that one first drag from
Your cigarette can you find it in
Yourself to come clean from everything?
Scrub meticulously in the shower but
The stench doesn't come off. Remove
That conversation from your thoughts.

Burn it like it never existed
Like all of the dresses and
All of the bridges you crossed
Only to be stranded on an island.

Bury yourself.
In trenches.

Lauren Bellfort (from the notes of Ryan Lancaster).

You're waiting by the sea, on the oceanic boardwalk along the bay front for my arrival.

You're biting your lip because you miss the way that I taste. You're tasting copper and salt.

You're looking into the horizon with your eyes as blue as twilight.

You're singing songs that echo off of the walls where you keep your vacant bed. It doesn't feel the same anymore without my warmth so you sleep on the floor.

Your hair is unkempt from the salty air, undyed. Your roots are showing because you just don't care anymore. You've got on your favorite dress. The one I always said looked the best on you. Your tears are leaving highways across your face because you can't stand the pain. You feel so alone.

Your arms are crossed.

I feel your pain.

A thing of a terrible past.

Shame, running from the faucets
Of rusty sinks. I spash my face with it
I'm trained to forget my feelings
And forced into a harsh, distorted body
I miss the feeling of country roads
With the wind in my face as we speed along
In a pick-up truck completely covered
With the dirt of the thriving countryside.

At the end of the day my life is cleansed
With the blood of the devil and the wine of saints.

And I cringe at the thought of you.
If you could see who I am at this very moment
I have no doubt that you'd be ashamed.
Because every time that you look at me
You have to come to the understanding that I...
I am your monster. I am your masterpiece.
As I lay here under the dim lights awaiting
Dissection, I'm singing your siren song.

Because it's all that I know anymore.
In a state of disrepair, and so alone.

The problem arises not recently
But is a thing of a terrible past.