Its cold
Lonely
There is no light
Where I have gone
Alone
In the dust

The seat next to mine is empty.

No one is singing the songs back to me.

No one is interrupting my calculated playlist with bad old songs.

The comments on my driving that used to bother me,
I now miss.

There are no shoe marks on the dashboard,
no trace of adventure.

The over excitement about the view that used to make me roll my eyes isn't there.

I miss these silly things that I took for granted.

In lingerie up on stage
It was a different age
Sultry sighs and bad mullets
It was all rock and roll

A teenage cherry bomb
A girl gone wild
Free to run away
Along a yellow brick path

I see it in the stars
Both cosmic and mortal
I feel it in the air
The world is about the shake
And I'm going to be the earthquake

Vintage as an advantage
Retro and grunge,
Shabby chic,
Whatever you call it

Like an angel, Judgement,
Calls the dead
It will be a resurrection
Singing and crooning,
Triumphant trumpets

So grab your guitars
And some mates
It's time to start a band

Queen of passion
Broken through love
She who gives all
Surely loses it all

Passions burning flame
No other flame may withstand
Burning out
Flame versus flame

Sad socrpio
You let a dull match in
Twig with no spark
Stealing your fire
Dulling her shine

Sad Scorpio, you know
Flame dulled
Stolen fire, a burning rage
Sad scorpio

Broken by a dull stick
Dull stick
Calls you dull

Sad Scorpio
Sad, sad Scorpio
Wishing to burn
She has been robbed

Flame stolen
Flame that once burned
All who challenged

Sad Scorpio
Steal your flame back
No.
You let him burn

He won't reignite your flame
No.
He burns you
Burns you up
Yet you stay, sad Scorpio

Says he is the only one
Who will keep you warm
No.
He burns you

Sad Scorpio
Steal your flane
Let him dwindle
Shine again

Seven cooks in the kitchen, making spaghetti,
Each one hurrying and rushing to ready.
My *** of bolognese, succulent, simmering,
Sits on the front right burner, heat shimmering.

One chef diligently tossing a salad,
Another one turns on a calm Italian ballad.
"Help!" Cries a cook as she comes running in.
"My Alfredo sauce won't work! It's much too thin!"

"Not to worry, my friend," I console the bereft.
"My burner is hot, take my place." I move left.
Things are a bit more crowded with her,
But I happily give my sauce a good stir.

Things are running more smoothly now,
'Til another chef bursts in (also having a cow).
"The spaghetti is cooking, but keeps boiling out!"
I think long and hard as the chef starts to pout.

"I'll push my *** back, so you can still see,
"My sauce will be fine for a minute or three."
My time in the kitchen has made me a quick learner,
So I smile as I move bolognese to the back burner.

"Stand and watch through the oven door," I said,
To keep a chef from burning his garlic bread. Another chef needs melted butter in her dessert.
Letting her use the microwave can't hurt.

All these chefs doing their work in a blur
Prevent me from giving my sauce a needed stir.
As minutes pass— five, eight, twelve, sixteen—
I begun to understand what the phrase means.

Although the situation is very fitting,
There's just too many cooks in the kitchen.
I don't want to let the wind out of their sails,
So I take a step back, waiting and biting my nails.

Time to dish up, and all chefs leave the area
And I approach my sauce on the verge of hysteria.
It's now much too thick, the bottom is black.
I've neglected my job while picking up slack.

There's no one to blame, I should've learned
If you move to back burner your dish will be burned.
Other chefs are being praised by our boss,
And I'm in the kitchen with a *** of bad sauce.