Forty-eight hours later and here’s my return.
The backside of my journal is only the start of my life.
I’m starving and homeless on the road less traveled,
Craving stardom and attention in the crowd that conceals the on look of Hollywood.
I am the master of my fat and the captain of my soul.
Producer of heart, editor of the lull.
Mass works of art with stories untold.

Forty-eight hours later and here’s my return.
Lights in my name, with shoes in my vine.
Stage across walked, line after line.
Twisted my words, unbearable to see.
Mangled with what all-around lies.

Forty-eight hours later and here’s my return.
The backside of my journal is only the start of my life.
I am the master of my fate, producer of heart, editor of lull.

I am the captain of my soul.