Forget Me Not. I swore one day that I'd never forget you, But recently I'm starting to regret that, And now when you don't bother replying, I don't think I have to, You've already forgotten me.

Don't You? Don't you hate it When everything you own Owns you? It's not being pessimistic To know we're materialistic, With everything we own. Do you own your phone? No. Your phone owns you, with it's GPS and its constant texts, and it's 'Where are you?' from friends. It's the 'What's on your mind?' as we draw the line and post our thoughts online for them. Don't you hate that? I do.

Legacy. Like all things, it starts with a question. One in particular. What would be left of me? Would I be memorialised? Would I be a plaque on a wall somewhere? A martyr to some cause? Or simply a pile of dusty bones in a wooden box underground? Was I supposed to be leaving a legacy, expected to be something more than I am? What if I'm - we are - simple an idea, The last vestiges of a broken dream? Will I someday be forgotten completely? The finest collection I own, Is the regrets I've kept for myself.

Bicycle. No matter where, no matter what, I always have this calming thought. In a small green book left back at home, are written the words "is it about a bicycle?" I always laugh.

Last Night. Last night I saw, Something I'm not sure of. Last night I watched the world be resurrected. Last night I saw the slate wiped clean, But I know in time, it will be just as unclean.