Its nearly midnight i guess i start this one with a poem i wrote when i was 13:

Navigator

When things were not
going carmine skin
and my eyes were too hard
for a gentle sleep
I would put my smooth thumb
in a papership
to journey the oceans
of torned books
of wasted lives
(like the dove in search
of lost seeds in a world
pestered with love songs)
It was a journey
of strange memories;
A journey returning
always a fractured nail
brimming with mournful weeds
of its pages
yet hungry for being unfilled
empty for being quiet.

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