Sitting in the pale,

lack of reminiscent memory covered bed sheets,

of a musty condemned motel,

lying on the outskirts of Ureka, Nevada.

Four eyes and two hallowed bodies

with scars of denounced torture from the outside world

we call home.

Slaves of money,

we gather our collectings

thinking this just sacrifice of green substance 

will buy us the chemicallly enhanced drugs sold

known as happiness.

Mixing together the routine of trade and materialistic wants,

we become bothersome with the thought of,

"Are we happy?"

This dank dust that falls on our heads,

as we sit in this room,

as we sink further down,

just to bloom.

These hands we once called to action in war,

connect in the dark

to illuminate the candour sounds of freedom.

Our eyes lock to eachother and our voices begin to decorate the room

with the writings of our past.

Each word that is spoken

brings a new silver lining to our future,

showing us 

that we are flawless.

These scars that the embodied person has printed upon us in times of hate

do not define our futures, nor our pasts.

These head wounds and lack of rejoiced memory do not protrude

the sake of our flawless futures becoming a meaningful present.

These words that we remember, and the physical attacks we see later on our bodies

do not define us as repulsive

but rather as flawless history books, 

awaiting to be read.

We sit here in this stale room

announcing our flawless thoughts.