If I could place a picture frame around my 23 years. I'd nail a compass to the top. Then I'd push it out into the ocean and tell the waves to never stop. No you never stop. Maybe one day I'd find it through the mist, washed up with all the fucking guilt that I thought I'd forgot. With its broken arms still pointing to you. How could it not? In our soul, she eats away our fears (Oh conscience, how can I stray?). So are my eyes open or just staring in to nothing? I'm looking at the compass, but all the arms fall away. I'm looking at the ink stains resemble all the things that I was too afraid to say. These vessels of guilt; torn tight and severed at the seams. I find myself looking for circles in squares, and squares within emptiness, and emptiness within loneliness. I find myself replaying the same old memories, replaying the same old treacheries, replaying the same old tragedies. I find myself hating, I find myself sure, I find myself replaying, I find myself guilt. I find myself remembering, I find myself hurt. I find myself turning to the old familiar paper tongues