Beauty as a plant that dies
and lives. Its infinite deaths
and lives. It withers and grows,
is dead, is born--no way out--
as above, so below, it's
all the same to me.
I don't know why it is so
or what it might mean.

Standing in the void,
time after time,
I thought you would know it.

Standing at the edge of the void,
I can't be scared
anymore.

I stand,
feel the wind on my skin--
vacuum air conditioner,
filling me out.
I want out,
so I'm filling me out.

Standing at the edge of the light,
I thought you could feel
my warmth sometimes.

Cold, the night is so cold,
"Won't you come home?"
but it is not I
who lives there.

Cold summer night,
you ruined my summer
with your wanton eyes.

I thought the race was too deep,
the scars, they could eat
my entire life away.

I'm made of prayers
and a pay phone,
to get you to answer
I must pay for it.

You looking scared,
but it's fine
I'm already done.
You can go home
and rest now,
(I'm already home).

Standing at the edge of the void...

I'm made of paper,
the dollar with the president's
face on it.

I keep hearing you sing,
but it sounds like moaning
to me.

When will it stop?
I can't let it go.
When will I drop the cards
and flow.

Play your cards right.

I must go...
into the void
(as above, so below)

I'm not a person,
identity,
persona,
self-image,
a mask.

I adapt as kids do,
never clinging to a role
because I am everything.

Come as you are,
              not how you ought to be

We’ve always
learned in school
that if you were found
to have written
something that
someone else wrote
(even unintentionally)
you would be
reprimanded.
But even then
I've always wondered;
out of the billions
how could I
possibly
be so unique?