I looked up at the Aztec sun/ I knew the world had just begun/ The rain poured down/ Drowning out all sound/ Except the brain-dead taunts they threw/ I took them and I knew/ That there had to be more than this/ More than this Hell we call Earth/ Something more real than Dali's surrealism/ More real tham the bleeding cuts I slashed on my available skin/ More real than the weed I smoked as my brain cells cringed and faded with me/ More real than the voices puking insults down my throat and wripping out my wiring/ More real than the unflinching numbers on the unforgiving scale, the last thing I saw before the black dots/ More real than the constant battle between here and there, life and death, stay or go/ More real than me/ I am flesh, blood/ I am 90 miles an hour on a back road at midnight/ Windows down howling out the sunroof begging strangers to make love to me/ I am stripping on beaches promising my soul to boys with heads of smoke/ I am tasting you tasting me tasting us/ I am running because my legs are on fire and so are my words/ I am biting the hand that feeds the wordless thoughts into my head/ Iam fighting with everyonething because I am right and weak and refuse to sink alone/ I am self-destruction until beauty is present/ I am the Aztec sun beating down on living sacrifices diving off bridges to unknown Gods/ I am writing for the lost, the hopeless, the deceived, the let down, the jocks, the sluts, the single parents, the sick, the weak, the dead, the living, the drug users, the woman abusers, the bastard Children, the scorn of Man/ We are one/ You are me and I am you and together we are this poem/ We are the future on paper because the past is dead/ I write for the future because without me, there isn't one.