Monsters.

We were born to run,

To roll down the windows of our life and let the wind blow back our hair.

I might have believed that once,

Until grey towns heaped up on the horizon,

And the distance between me and isolation grew shorter.

“I can’t wait!” I might have said,

But now the shape that I had once imagined has been dented by the blows of whatever happened to happen,

And the same weed burns and the same beer gauges our stomachs,

I remember that you told me that this was how monsters are made.

Just look at us now,

Still standing upon the edge of anticipation,

Same as we ever were,

Our pasts laugh at us,

And our futures have never seemed so far away,

So we become trapped in the nothingness here.

Then I understood;

The way we are has not been determined by our hurts or hells,

Our past holds no blame for our misery,

No.

We were always these monsters.

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