Sometimes I wish you could grab my heart to feel how strangely it beats. To call us mites with heartstrings might be hardly unobscene. We latchers, hatchers matter as an asteroid might a star. We're tripping, reckless, wrecked, and, all in all, as close as far. Machine head mold homegrown and sold in packing peanut boxes, in love, unloved; in bed, inbred; just rabid, sly-less foxes. We bleed in cautioned color, but inside we're gross and blue. Nobody cares we're dying or, inside, dead through and through. Guilty, filthy, mean, but filled to brim with endless thought just wasted on disadvantageous dreams dreamt up for naught. Some filibuster feelings inconvenient to their plans, living less for point and purpose, more for skills and brands. When it's my turn, I'll burn, you'll earn the right to say goodbye; wave me off with laughter, tears, applause, or with a sigh. Sometimes I wish you could grab my heart to feel how strangely it beats. For now, I guess you won't. "Now, sit down, children, take your seats.