When young, you feel immortal- you are not-,
And what you think or know, believe or are
Is quite beside the point of having fun,

You chase & squeeze emotions' moments far
Too far for good or bad; you've really got
To make things last, the laughing, crying, one-
And-only chance & shot at life, its singing,
Dancing, smoking, drinking, fucking joke....

Perhaps you seem the master as the slave
To your emotions; weak, in thrall, yet crave
Submission's safetys? Ataraxia's charms
Attract you seldom; peace for other folk,
An hellish, mental war for you, bringing
And conflating joys with selfish harms?

L. A. Barron


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