I sit upon the golden throne of honesty surrounded by liars and knaves. But here I am alone, no one next to me… all I see are fires and graves. Where would I be without the pen to grieve with? I’m so worn out I can hardly believe it. Evil wanders freely masquerading as your friends; most will do most anything as a mean to the end. And here, I implore you, friends, to drop your wicked ways… uphold your values with a passionate rage. Reality is tough, but you don’t need to be complicit… falling to what is easy rather than right is simply put: illicit. And through the fire of frozen minds I still can’t help but love you. My greatest strength is my folly: I stand for the truth. I sit here writing as the lonely poet sage. My tears are smudging ink on the journal page. Am I here, now, lying to myself? Will crying out the pain do anything to help?