so this is it i suppose
what everything in my life has been leading to
a perfect day
honestly exceeding even my wildest dreams
so why am i still up
at 4 A.M.
thinking about were it all went wrong
i met my future classmates
i was the life of the conversation
every witty comment
thrown in at just the right time
i have girls
plural
that want to talk to me
or at least they seem to want to
so why is it
that when everything is all coming together
im feeling like everything is spiraling out of control
rapidly dying in the new days glow
i close my eyes hoping
against all hope
that those horrid problems from my past
aren't resurfacing
and that im just tired
and i mean it this time
please just let me sleep

what can i say to you
i ask myself that everyday
what can i say to you
anything to make you laugh
what can i say to you
i think im falling for you
what can i say to you
i hate myself for doing this
what can i say to you
to make you hate me
what can i say to you
to make this all go away

Make no mistake
im not an artist
im a lot of things
an poet isnt one of them
im a fake if i was real
everything i write
dances with the truth
like two prancing lovers in a field
who are slowly dying
from overdosing on something they shouldnt have taken
i hate what i write
i hate myself
i really do

When im standing here
i feel right next to nowhere
this is a spot
where the books plot
was forever brought forward

this is were we first kissed
the only time i felt such bliss
you said i love you too the moon and back
now if only my heart wasnt so black
we both could have walked away happy

I suppose this is what ive become
a commodification of myself
i haven't written anything in ages
i just finished another work
not ten seconds ago
i  cant remember ever being proud
of the things i do
because i think that requires
one to be honest with the way things are

No one ever tells you
about how the eagle soars
until its barely a speck
even to the sky

no one ever tells you
about how that eagle
has to deal with
to many of its children not making it
to many partners, falling of the cliff
welcomed into the sea with open arms
to many winters, gone hungry
watching as the others starve around you
to many suns
dancing across the sky
to remember all their faces

I think that at some point
in every artist career
(i suppose im an artist now)
they create the truest work they ever will
and everything feels not as right to them
those works were what they always strived for
i remember writing them
how could i not?
riding into new york
a bus full of strangers
in the pitch blackness of midnight
i took the last free breath of my life
and i staggered my way
across any paper i had
writing the only things
id ever be proud of

as the clock hands rolled
in time with the buses wheels
i looked at the strangers around me
some of which i knew since childhood
and i knew
that as long as i had this piece
everything would work out
and i could go on with my life
and never have to write another word

if only it was bright enough on that bus
to actually wright anything
other than abstract lines
representing the structures
of dead words epitaphs

so i write
trying to get a glimpse
of what i saw
that horribly seductive night
in a new york spring