flirting with a nervous breakdown
where's your will to be weird?
Can’t feel my feet, cool beans.
Working day in day
Out and up and over all
My petty old flaws.
Keeeyahhhh.
Twilight on my right
Returning murderous hate
To the breaking day
bombers, ballistics, and bullshit
boston, holed up in
fear and holy terror, shit
i just want coffee.
real things and misbeliefs
life ain’t all that short
but the river that runs to
god’ll run out of shore.
cocked…
there are things i don’t
remember, some i do and
wish i didn’t but
holy shit last night…
drinking like my life was in
it, little did i
know i was tearing
it all to ruin setting
fire to the flame
behind my eyes, high
on riding into hell and
writing off the one
thing i love so well
god how i hate how i am
when my soul’s to sell.
babies
i just can’t seem to
embrace tracing root canals
through you but i shall
i can’t tell now if
i am or if i was once
something more than me
there seems to be a
lot i can’t do, little i
can, but this i will.
i may not know shit, but i know this.
you are the water
that’s been running through my life
making everything
better and better
until there’s nothing left of
the I that should’ve
died a long long time
ago now where i’m going
is the road and i
don’t know where it goes
but i also don’t seem much
to mind much these days
and who knows about
eight months from now when it’s all
figured out, i don’t
i’ll paint our house with
my past and your past, as one
they’ll be beautiful.
fuck school.
what will you sing when
i’ve been sung, when mine and yours
are numbers that are
up up and away
games, little high school bullshit
that everyone’ll
forget one day, one
way or another, but i
think i’ll remember.
shaming a fledgling shaman every day.
glamours and dapper
dampenings clamor for my
hindsight, the view from
the afternoon or
maybe the morning after
as it’s been described
i just hope it still
shines on, stay gold for me please
would you kill for these?
the thing that lets you know time is happening.
try and feel the change
know time is happening, no
line will rapidly
form in full beauty
storm in whirling worldly fists
wording nothing so
poorly as this, shut
the fuck up. let what will be,
be, even if it’s dead.
happier now.
i got pizza, beer
donuts and weed enough to
last me all fucking
week. i don’t need you
to be happy, and i don’t
mean to be so damn
sappy, but after
all i need to write. songs come
from pain, not from joy.
the dead and dying dream.
so will you kill all
the poets and the dreamers
and their dreams with them?
since you say the dream
is dead, i say you buried
it behind my eyes.
“what we obtain too
cheap we esteem too lightly”
so fight, fucking fight.
