Closer to Home

The gravel shifts beneath your feet
You're walking down a one way street
And on this street you can not turn around
There's travellers alongside you
You wonder where they're travelling to
The message of your life starts to resound

If only you'd have known
Just how short life was
If only you'd have known
What's worth living for
If only you'd have known
You might have made a choice
If only you'd have known
Heavens coming closer to home

The crowds around you fade away
All the colours blend to grey
Your whole life just flashed before your eyes
Grasping for the one who's near
The world around you disappears
Stripped, you can't depend on your disguise

If only you'd have known
Just how short life was
If only you'd have known
What's worth living for
If only you'd have known
You might have made a choice
If only you'd have known
Heavens coming closer to home

There's This Guy I Know

A boy came into the pub today
He's throwing them back without delay
He's barely nineteen
And as strong as he seems
It just helps keep his fears at bay

There's a boy out in the parking lot
He's with the dropouts smoking pot
He seems cool and collected
Hopes his mind's not affected
These are all of the friends that he's got

Here's the boy with a girl in his bed
Sex is his way of getting ahead
You don't get it back
Don't you understand that
One day you'll regret this instead

A boy steals major cash from his mom
Then he's arrested with a much smaller sum
He waits lonely in jail
And prays for the bail
That he knows is never going to come

Judgement

There's a shadow on the floor in the corner of the room. A crumpled huddled figure, masked in the blacks and greys. The figure is human, small, frail. The eyes are dull and hard like granite. Like a stone that the ocean has broken and crashed against an infinite number of times. Eventually that rock will turn to sand, ground down enough times that it becomes less and less each beating. The rock is no longer something one can trip on, or stub their toe on, the rock can not even prove it's own existence once it is sand. Sand goes unnoticed, no grain of sand more important than the next, reduced to nothing. The figure's frame is shaking. Perhaps with fear, the fear of being discovered, or the fear of never being found. Perhaps with cold as the wind whips through the drafty room. The emotions are as well concealed as the figure itself. Buried behind hollow eyes and dirty sunken cheeks. The rest of the room is well lit and crowded. Happy, chatter carries through the crowds. It is easy to miss the camouflaged creature. Amidst the laughing and dancing and frivolity going on, who has time to spare a glance at an idle guest. Perhaps the figure has bigger problems than being a wallflower. You step into the room, and after initially having to shove your way through the crowd, you are immediately engulfed by the party. You're passed a drink and offered a dance, stumbling towards an open space in the crowd, into a corner. What do you find their but a drunken girl rude enough to pass out on the floor. Her limbs are bleeding, you've assessed her as a drug addict and her lack of dress also implies prostitute. Who is this stranger? Who cares?

A Pair of Blue Jeans

She bought a pair of really nice blue jeans. She paid top dollar for them but they were worth it. They were high quality denim, a deep blue, and they were designer, one of a kind. They had some bead work around the pockets and tiny cloth stars sewn on the bottom hem. She wore them right out of the store and strode confidently through the mall. People turned to watch her walk by and she was sure that they were admiring her new jeans. However when she stepped outside into the parking lot she couldn't help but notice that the blue wasn't quite as rich out here. She wore her jeans to school the next day, hoping for praise and approval. Strangely, no one said anything, and then she noticed the jeans that all the other girls wore. Their jeans all looked similar, the other girls all wore their pants lower and their jeans were all bleached.
She went home that night and took the jeans down to the laundry room. Reluctantly, and with shaking hands she pulled the container of bleach off the shelf. She doused the jeans, wincing with the knowledge that the bleach would ruin the quality fibres. She knew the soft texture of the denim would never return. Nonetheless she proudly wore the newly bleached jeans to school again. They were blotchy in some spots and splattered with careless drips, but they were closer to fitting in than before. She even got a compliment on them that day.
She wore her jeans all through the winter, but as spring approached the styles began to change. The other girls now had holes in their jeans, just above the knees where it looked like they'd worn through. She looked down at her own jeans and noted that apart from the obvious bleaching, they were in excellent condition. However, when she got home, she spread the jeans out over the kitchen table and with dull craft scissors cut one slit in each leg. She ripped the opening further apart and let the white strings hang and fray, just like the other girls did. Satisfied, she set the jeans aside for the next day. When she put them on again, she accidentally stuck her foot through one of the holes. Easily widening the weakened material.
At school her friends raved about her newly adapted jeans. She was even invited to a sleepover, to which she would be sure to wear the jeans everyone loved so much. Everyone else wore their jeans to the party too. The girls all sat on the floor with markers and pens strewn around them. She was told that they were all going to sign each others jeans and write comments. Happily signing her name and writing little compliments to each girl, she excitedly ran back for her own jeans once the exchanges were finished. Still gathered in a circle, one of the girls pointed out that her jeans would look better without the stars, which looked so childish. searching for a seam ripper, she hastily tore away all the little stars.
After the party, she spent more time at home carefully reading all the little inscriptions on her jeans. Smiling she traced her own signature and a few of the other girls, however the smile faded as she read the comments further. far from words of encouragement or friendly jokes, the harsh criticisms and cruel jabs stung her eyes and tears began to form. She also noticed that there were large blank patches where no one had bothered to sign. In a last resort, she hurriedly threw the jeans into the washer hoping that maybe they'd be wiped clean, the way they were. To her dismay, the washing machine had done little more than blur the words into messy smudges, certain words were still very legible. She emptied the entire container of bleach into a bucket and plunged the jeans in. Returning hours later to find the jeans had been reduced to an ugly, white, partially see through crumpled mess of fabric. Nothing at all like the beautiful blue designer jeans she had once bought. ruined not by time, but by insecurity and loneliness. Destroyed by jealousy and the unkindness of others. Her one of a kind jeans, a masterpiece, lost for the price of fitting in.