You can’t just lay there and accept life,
like those who fail to experience good sex.

The bird of fire in my soul ignites,
and launches a firestorm on the apathy,
of friends who’ve let go of their lives,
far too early to experience the pleasures.

You can’t concede your life to boredom and misery,
waiting for passion and meaning to happen to you,
because it won’t come for you now,
or ever again unless you take control,
and raise your pathetic existence up,
out of the dull ashes it simmers in,
and pull it into the sunlight once again.

I won’t let you surrender your soul,
or you will become a shell human,
gutted of emotion and enjoyment,
limping alone, broken and cold;
your fire will burn again,
or else I’ve failed you, my friend.

We can no longer afford to fail one another,
as more cold bodies pile on more cold bodies,
and a chill creeps into the bones of the living,
and the sewers fill with dead spirits who’ve turned,
into monsters that wade through the shit-filled waters,
as ravenous alligators in the swamp, filled with hatred,
ready to destroy the hopes and dreams of the passionate ones,
who embrace as lovers should, and don’t dwell on frozen memories,
because they are too busy creating a fire inside of their lover’s eyes.