Crushed cigarettes live in sad places.
Lit cigarettes often come and go between my parted lips.
Suburan houses contain dark circles and drug problems.
I can't stop staring at the boy with curly hair.

Born to die the worlds creatures,
flourished in unexplainable manners
surviving through time and space,
but humans spent their very existence,
debating the order and race
not to mention their importance
forgetting how to be alive,
the people started to die inside

Born to love; the worlds creatures,
became brothers and mothers,
they survived off each other
but humans soon forgot how to care,
as they tear
the world apart
if they only knew love is in the heart

I know your ceiling so well.
lying on my back.
with no clothes on.

I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
The busy,
never seemed to see much more than a mistake,
something that needs to be erased.
The critics,
always pointing out my many flaw,
somethings were better never done at all,
The sad,
traced along my faded stains,
of long hard water rains
The deep,
tried to figure out my every meaning,
but moved on when they realized I needed cleaning

I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Often left in strange musty coffee shops,
by people who never really, stopped,
to look to closely at the words that defined me
I wished I had a bold title that made you want turn the page,
to try to solve my many puzzles,
I longed to be read,
but instead it was if I was written in erased lead

I am like the voice of a worn singer,
with one last song to sing before the bar lights fade,
because as lonely as it is no one ever stays,
to hear the last lines,
taking us back through all of those times,
eventually silence is the only song left to sing to,
it tends to be the only song people listen to.


I am like the graffiti covering the pavement in fast paced cities.
Never quite blending to my ever changing background,
One day an artist happened to pass by,
intrigued by my every curve and line,
fascinated with the weathered paint
that was me
One night while the city slept the artist,
filled in all the chipped gaps with new paint,
adding brighter colors to all of my dull spots
The artist changed the way I hung on the wall,
but really he taught me that I had been art after all

I am like the discarded newspaper from yesterday,
Filled with stories from the past,
One day a business man stopped to pick me up,
He read my stories from cover to cover,
and even kept me in his briefcase,
to take out during his laze,
to reread the comics,
that kept him laughing for days.
The businessman changed my story,
but really he taught me that the words written weren't boring

I am like the voice of a worn singer,
unheard by listeners,
One night a dark figure,
took a seat in the very back
and stayed all throughout  
just to hear my voice crack,
and when it was finally time to go,
he came out of the dark only to say,
“Will you please sing that again?”
The dark figure kept me singing,
but most of all he taught me that someone was listening

Sitting on the floor of your dimly lit kitchen,
is the boy who never gets full,
of chewing up all his emotions,
to later only puke them back out

Sitting backwards in your old bed,
is the boy who never seems to rest,
of giving me dreamy ***,
but his heart is still fast asleep

sitting in the front seat of your car,
is the boy who can't drive,
due to all the different directions
his head is in

I only write at night,
Its the only time my wall goes down,
back to who I was (who I am)
I need you like water (in my lungs) ; drown me sweetly,
I can't hold you down (from your pain) choking you baby
i need air (from life's confusion)

Sometimes when I rarely sleep,
I see back to distant memories
to times where I would never weep
such hazy dreams I'd die to keep

When he holds me I'm never lonely
but my many holes I own solely  

Sometimes when we rarely drink,
I can feel our deep link
how we try hard not to think
about how I'm bound to sink

more is never enough,
lust of the ******
i can't get enough
give me sweet passion
without distraction.