Eight

I do not care

for petty gatherings

or to watch the young

as they dissolve.

I do not feel the need

to work,

labouring for a goal

so out of reach.

I do not write

to simply preach

or cast a spell

over open minds.

I write for those,

so terribly blind. 

I do not lust 

for another’s touch,

I long for solitude 

within an open space.

I do not drink to forget,

I sip each glass

in the hope I’ll return,

lost in the past.

I did not take cocaine

to feel happiness,

I wanted to comedown

and feel as though

I was the only one around.

I do not care for fame

and the destruction it brings.

I would rather see the world 

and taste different winds.

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