The night was long and the sky was pitch-black.
A long day of work for me had ended.
I found myself walking the long road back.
Had I known what cruel, sick fate portended,
I would have stayed at home that dark, drab day.

The trees surrounded the road on each side,
Making it hard to note even your hand.
The gloomy trees did make the path not wide.
Still I trod, waiting for familiar land.
In the distance, creatures began to stir.

Knowing no better, I continued on.
Even as my neck-skin began to shake,
I knew I just had to make it home, soon.
When I could begin to feel the ground quake,
My uneasy walk became a swift pace.  

Vibrations of the hard earth were no joke.
And as I hurried, my ears heard faint noise.
A rustling of a nearby bush, I bespoke.
Just the wind, I thought, to maintain my poise.
But I could sense something unbecoming.

As the strong tremors of the dirt endured,
I lost my footing, and fell right over.
Cuts and scrapes made my vision obscured.
But which saw sight which made me seek cover.
A sight of a rotting, wretched, ripe corpse!

I recoiled roughly rearward, in great shock.
Never had I seen such a stark, grim sight.
Looking, it seemed death by self-caused Glock.
As best I could see by what little light.
Panicked, I found myself dashing away.

With scarce thought or mind to which direction,
My legs ran as fast as they could dare fare,
Though my mind didn’t make the connection,
That I could walk into something’s vile lair.
I had to forget that which I had seen.

My mind did not awaken till I was,  
In a darkened, moistened, and chilled cave.
Having composure anew, I felt fuzz,
As I considered if it would be safe,
The slight static popping in my ears stayed.

For whatever reason, I did not leave.
It was cold, wet, and pouring down outside.
And I still needed a moment to grieve
That poor, lonely soul still lying outside.
All the while as I stood, the static stayed.

Feeling piqued, and on edge, I explored it.
The cold cave seemed abandoned and alone.
I could see little, due to dark unlit.
But my ears did pick up a strange, low groan.
Mixing with the ringing, rattling static.

I was most disturbed, yet I could not stop.
Something greater compelled me to walk on.
The next noise I did hear was a loud pop.
Like the sick dislocation of a bone.
Inwardly, I noted the static sound.

After much traversing, I reached the end.
My heart was beating a drum in my chest.
I knew I had myself with which to fend.
As the static in my ears would attest.
It had reached a fevered, maddening pitch.

What I saw defied imagination.
Obtuse, abstract, yet horrifying sights!
Creatures of inhuman shape and proportion!
Their only clear feature, eyes gleaming bright,  
As they lurched and shook, as if in a dance.

Screaming wildly, I ran from that foul place.
Feeling the static cling onto my face.

You can call me Elsa like I'm Frozen
cause you know I never let it go,
and I won't ever let you go,
whether or not you say no.

You know I hold more grudges
than white racist judges,
I'll be your biggest regret yet,
so much more than a threat.

And it's not like I want you,
I just don't want anyone to want you,
like a toy that I don't wanna share,
then I throw away elsewhere.

I hope you know you can't ignore me,
I want my face to be in your dream or
rather a nightmare so I can hear you scream.
By the time I'm done, you won't forget me.

And like a bad addiction, you won't quit,
and each day another step down the pit.
And don't deny, cause you know it's true,
you like the pain and the daily abuse.

You and me, we're meant to be,
for better or worse, well, better for me,
and worse for you, if we're being real,
like the fisher who hooks the reel.

Like a pet, you'll be under my thumb,
while everyone else plays dumb.
There's no escape or no release,
just you begging at my feet.

These demons inside of me
don't leave me alone,
or give me a break,
the only break they want
is the break of my soul.

They're always at my neck,
behind my back, waiting,
for a moment when I slip
and let them in to win.
I see 'em when I wake,
walk, but when I'm dreaming
is when they the most active.
The one I met last was a doozy,
a lady known as the Sorrow.

Now sadness comes in many forms,
loud and moaning, or low
and groaning, and all facets
in between. The Sorrow I met
had a low, choking sob
that came from the throat.

That was what I first sensed,
before I spotted any visual.
As I explored the dream-domain,
I found nothing of note,
in that blue-tinted room
of white squared tiles.

It was a clean space, yes,
but it was more sterile than
anything and with nothing to show,
it felt like emptiness given form.

So it didn't take me long
to track that weeping sound,
and find the only other figure
present within the mess of tiles,
a humanesque form lying on
the cold, featureless ground.

She was crying to herself,
so I couldn't see her features,
and her hair covered her too,
like some kind of shroud from
the world and its sadness.

What I could spot was a skin
that was tinted blue, lightly
so and partially faded too.
Her clothes were long and modest,
Everything about her seemed
to project an image of a cocoon,
a cover to hide under from the
ways of our world, weighing her down.

I felt an awful pity for the woman,
never was I one to take joy in
others pain or misery. This girl
was a stranger, but stranger, I
felt an empathy towards her.

Even though I stood right above,
and had been watching for a bit,
she didn't seem to know I was there.
I called to her, without a name to call,
and still, she ignored me, still weeping.
Uneasy I did feel, wondering what
I should do or if I should just go.
Who was I to bother her in this state?

I didn't even know how I'd help,
it's not like I was an expert on grief,
but still, I wanted to give her relief.
So I lightly poked down at her shoulder,
hoping to at last her attention.

After a few moments, she moved,
at least acknowledging my action.
She seemed surprised and stunned,
and so it took her a minute to respond.
Slowly she switched her head up to me.
She slipped her hands from her face,
and moved her hair out as well,
finally removing that natural veil.

For a moment, I was the one stunned.
Seeing her face clear, now, I was
shocked. Her face was actually my face,
my features her features. Except she
wore an expression of unenviable sadness.
A misery that belied the weight of
her sorrow. It was a sorrow at once
I could feel.

For it was my sorrow as well. All
of life's weights crushed onto me
at that moment, all of the pain,
all of the misfortune that I had
to deal with and get over came back
all at once with great fury and force.

Every time I ever cried out,
or felt like all I could do was
be miserable and alone, or
that all my life's goals would
amount to nothing and I'd die,
not a blip on anyone's radar.

That was what fueled the Sorrow,
what gave her life and form,
what motivated her mission
of making me feel as empty
as she felt, as forlorn as she was.

Like true sorrow, it stopped me.
I could no longer move, these rocks
keeping me grounded much like her.
Soon, I was crying just like her.

Two mirror images of misery,
connected and reflected side-by-side.

When I finally awoke from the vision,
tears had stained my pillow moist.

You were the one I thought I loved,
the one who I thought would be mine,
to have and to love and to kiss and to hug,
and to hold and to own and to take.

But you weren't mine to own or to control,
or the object of my diseased affections.
You were your own person, with your own wants,
your own desires, and your own feelings
that didn't involve me or my dreams, and that's okay.

You owed me nothing, yet I made you feel you did,
we were friends at one time, and maybe we could
have been something more had I been aware.
But I was young and foolish and didn't know what
it meant to truly love somebody.

I thought I loved you, but I didn't.
I cared for you and longed for you,
and wanted to be with you, but
I didn't truly love you. I didn't consider
you or what you wanted, and just
tried to make you feel my way.

I let my feelings became dark and
obsessive and get the better of me, and
you were the one who suffered, not me.
It wasn't right of me, and I apologize.
I haven't seen you in many years,
and I wonder if I will ever get a chance,
to properly express my sorrow for
the way I acted and the way I treated you.

If our paths ever do cross once more,
I wish we'll be able to on terms friendly,
talk of our pasts and of our futures,
but if you're not interested, I don't blame you.

I didn't by good do you,
so why would you, the same, do?

My friend, so full of heart
Shall bring light to the dark.

My friend is good and kind,
Sharp of wit, and bright mind.

My friend will be the one
With her many tales spun

To turn our world around
Until she wears the crown.

She possesses the make
To conquer our life’s race.

But either way, she is
My friend for evermore,
A mighty writing ****,
And a foe nevermore.

I can't deny or dismiss,
this feeling of loneliness,
or the way it creeps in,
when I try to go to sleep.

Shadows on the wall,
shadows down the hall,
feels like I'm always alone,
and it's all I've ever known.

Even when I'm with friends,
I cannot seem to make amends,
with the pain that I feel inside,
no matter how hard I try to hide.

Loneliness seems to affect
me, causing a disconnect,
between my friends and me,
it's something they can't see.

Something they can't get,
not that I blame them yet,
the sadness is still there,
this is me laying it bare.

It's just too much to bear,
when it's like they don't care.
It's like I'm a man on Mars,
and they're out among the stars.

We can't connect or relate,
they're all living lives great,
while I'm struggling to keep up,
like some kind of sick keep-away.

Why did they leave me here,
Isolated, crying out in fear?
Did I deserve this horrid fate,
with all this grief on my plate?

Forced to face the masses bare,
forced to feel the crowd's stare,
it's all more than I can take,
an awful feeling I can't shake.

I never did feel more alone,
then among a crowd on my own,
Like an ant among anteaters,
a platoon of people-eaters.

Choices are important.

The things we do,
the words we speak,
the thoughts we think,
they each define us.

But one bit to consider,
as our choices shape us,
at what point are we
the ones in control?

We like to think we
are free to do whatever
our hearts desire, that
we could scream to the
heavens above, just
because it was our life
and we could live it
however we pleased.

But is that really true?

Or is our idea of freedom
just another form of control?
Rarely do people genuinely
do things outside their
normal, every-day routine.

They get up, they eat,
they wash, they go to work,
they work, they go home,
they sleep, so the circle spins.

Even when they get time
to be on their own, what
do they do? They eat,
they drink, they dance,
they watch their tv,
they follow their routine.

The choices they made,
those things that seemed
so slight back in their early years
proved to be fundamental in
deciding who and what they'd be
at this current spot in time.

We all make choices,
but in the end, our choices make us.

People are like oceans,
each their own collection of
of currents and of waves,
thrashing and bashing
against wayward seas.

Some are intertwined,
and connected like straits,
others flow apart and alone,
their own self-contained sea,
a world within itself.

Some are calm rivers,
lazily flowing like the Mississippi,
others are rough and choppy,
bruising against the cliffs
and seabeds of the world.

Some are deep and dark,
with mysteries lurking in their depths,
like buried treasure or cursed ruins
others are more shallow waters,
their depths clear, clean, and pure.

No man is an island,
but we are oceans,
each with our own ships,
and waves, and currents,
and bays, and buoys that
shape and define our course.

I find myself rotting away,
into something different,
something stranger still,
something worse than,
what I once was.
I am descending into
a deep, dark depth,
and I don't know,
if I can find my way
back to the surface,
or if I even want to.

I am becoming something more,
something better than I was before.
I am ascending above, to a place
few have ever happened to reach.

The me that once you knew
is no longer the me that is
here now. He is here to stay
forever, and ever, and evermore.

I had to **** the coward I used to be,
so that I could ascend and become
the man you see before you now.
Had to rip that ******* in two.

You may want to turn and run,
since you fear what you can't understand,
but my words are true when I tell you
that the me that I am now is the best me.

The me of days past was fraught with fear,
and let the world at large push him around,
This brand new, shiny me that you now see
is a person who's not afraid to proudly be.

Now I am loud, and I am proud,
not afraid to push back when pushed,
not afraid to yell and scream at those
who dare to stand in my way

You can call me scary and scream,
you can call me strange and walk away,
but realize that this me is something higher,
a being that has found the means to ascension.

If red was blue,
and black was white.

If up was down,
and left was right.

If light was dark,
and day was night.

If life was fair,
and good was right.

If lie was truth,
and love was spite.

Then a world there could be for you and me.

But.

The world is round.
The earth is ground.

The dirt is brown.
The grass is grown.

And you are you, and I am me.

When you take a look around,
and watch the marble turn.
It's easy to say the world is doom.
That all we are is glum gloom.

Look at all the sad people,
sobbing in the streets.
Look at all the sad people,
struggling on their feet.

But take a look inside,
and see the happiness blossom.
From the children at play,
from the future seen today.

Don't let your views be clouded,
by the plastic lies on T.V.
When you take the world as it truly is,
with your eyes, you will anew see

The happy child, the gleeful pup.
The grinning girl, the joyous cat.
There is beauty in it all.
From the very tall to the small.

In laughter and in loving,
our true truth is made clear.
To love another is to touch the sky,
to make one laugh is most dear.

What a miracle it is to just be,
truly it is a gift worthy of thee.

Ah, on nights such as these
Does my heart long for thee.
The cold, does it linger
Making my heart malinger.
Still I continue.

Winter shields not the ever-present thoughts
Of all that we were, had, and could have been.
My mind, it does continue to ponder
As my feet trudge and sluggishly wander.

O', what joy did you and I once possess?
I remember how your eyes did sparkle.
An emerald's gleam could not dare compare
And let's not speak of that smile that did glow.

Before we met, my heart, it was frozen.
Made hard by much anguish and constant grief.
As the storm of life battered my soul's sails,
A glacier, my heart grew cold and icy.

Careless, distant, and blase was my life.
I grew too cold to other people's strife.
What friends I had soon made their departure.
I was alone, and alone was I pleased.

But you were the one who opened my eyes.
Your beauty shook all my preconceptions.
'Twas not just your comeliness that stunned me.
Like a Fae sprite, you ******* my winter spite.

You challenged, and you motivated me
To change and to care about life once more.
It took some time, but I knew you were mine.
I came to love you, and you did love me.

But my eternal bad luck proved fatal.
To probe my memories brings just trouble.
Safe to say, you left me snow-blind and cold.
Winter is my nature, my creed, my state.

As the fallen fall leaves crunch at my feet
I can deny not my life's defeat.
All my joy and sorrow has come to naught.
I may as well roam among the snowmen.
'Twould mean just as much.

Never did a man’s heart beat,
As when ours did first meet.
To hold your hand was sweet.
To have love was a treat.

I knew of love, I did.
Before you, my heart hid.
I couldn’t put it on bid.
I chose to keep me alid.

Yet, by luck or by chance,
I found romance, and a chance
A new chance to enhance
All I knew, with a dance.

So I say to you, love,
My peach, my sweet, my dove,
Place me in your heart’s cove.
And I shall know much love.

The problem with faith, scratch that,
MY problem with faith, I guess I'd say,
it's the attitude, the manner of the people
who have it. Now, let me preface this,
I don't speak to all people of faith, cause
I know some ain't this way, but I know
people, and am friends with those who are.
And that is who I speak to.

Now I don't mind the faithful who
don't shout it out loud, or wave it
like a flag-bearer. Those who believe,
those who dream, and keep to themselves,
that's a faith that I can respect, won't shelf.
Even if it's not for me, I won't tell them
that they wrong for what they think.
Yet, there are others who trouble me so.

Certain people of faith, they wear it like
a sticker, or a badge of honor, and sure,
maybe it's something to be proud of,
something to take joy or glee in,
but whether they know it or don't,
it carries an implication I can't ignore.

Their faith is a way of lording over you,
a way they can say, "I'm better than you".
Even with the best of intentions they may have,
a desire to make you as good as they feel,
it's still just a wall that divides me and them.

Or, rather, a fence that they can sit on,
and still be above me, feeling so self-superior.
It leaves me feeling weak and depressed,
to feel like my friends think they're so much better,
just because they believe in a higher power
in something above that I just don't share.

They always want to try and preach to me,
try and convert me, like I'm just a check
to be marked, a mark to be had, I draw
that line in the sand. I don't want to hear
it, even if they mean well, but still, they continue.
And so I find myself forced to yell, and like that,
I'm the bad guy who needs to apologize
instead of the victim who had been forced upon.

Perhaps they can't really be blamed
for being this way, for thinking this way.
As far as they see it, they just sharing the message,
spreading gospel for the betterment of all.
They want me, and people like me, to join 'em above,
to live that life immortal, life immemorial .

But I can't buy, just because they selling,
I can't take what they be giving because
it don't work for me, it don't jive with me.
It's not a system I can comply with, beliefs
that I can fly with. I respect the faithful,
and the good that it lets them do, but
I don't respect the way they shove
it down my throat like a bad pill.

It's something too tough to swallow
even with a glass of water to wash it down,
it makes me angry and want to shout.
Maybe that's why I get so defensive when
I feel like I'm being preached to.
Because deep down, it feels like an excuse to
be talked down to, and I just have to take it,
or else I'm heinous, speaking heresy, blasphemy,
or just being plain disrespectful to them.

Now, faith folk, don't get up in arms,
don't raise your red cups up in anger.

Don't take this as a condemnation,
or some kind of vilification,
when really it's just conjugation,
or, rather, venting my frustration.

Talking to you is
like pulling out teeth.
Root by root making me
want to punch yours out.

I need a shot of gas
just to stand your face.
'Least I could laugh at
your ridiculous remarks.

You're deeper than the ocean,
you say, but I know the score.
More shallow than the lightest
puddle is far more accurate.

Why must you be so smug?
Why can't you just be nice?
Is it so hard to be humble?
Do you gotta be such a ****?

Maybe it's just something in you,
something in that brain that
makes you have to act superior,
but you won't get any pity for me.

A bully is a bully, and that's
you to a T. You're self-absorbed,
self-loving, and just plain selfish.
A guy like you won't make it far in life.

If you don't change your evil ways,
one day someone's going to put you
in your rightful place. So maybe
try a little kindness sometime, eh?

Tell me, o’ lover of mine, o’ lover of mine.
Do you love me true, love me true?
And will you let me, oh mine, be thine,  
In the thick and the thin through?

Tell me, o’ lover of mine, o’ lover of mine
Will you be my darling true, darling true?
Will you drink my heart like the finest wine,
And turn this one fool into us two?

Tell me, will you love me whole, love me whole?
And please, will you love me full, love me full?
For so long I’ve had, deep inside, a vast hole,
Won’t you please make this loneliness cull?

For if, o’ lover, o’ lover, you were to pass me by,
I’d surely feel naught but emptiness inside,
And do you want to see this poor fool cry?
So, if you please, just give me a try.

Tell me, o’ lover of mine, o’ lover of mine,
Will you be my darling true, darling true?
Will you slice off the vines, slice the vines?
And make me happy true, happy true.

Living with these demons in me,
these monsters keep on haunting me,
they go by many names, and wear
many faces as they try and test me.
They want to try and get the best
of me, they competing for my soul,
like it were a game of chess,
but this one ghoul, he just
likes to rage and roar and
ravage and rake me across the coals,
and he calls himself the Rage.

In my dreams, I seen him barking,
something like a man, but something
more still. He's tall as hell,
skin red like the raging fire,
eyes burning with rageful desire.
The fiend, he emanates heat from
every pore, just being around him
was like walking in an oven.

In this dream or maybe a vision,
I watched him for a while, before
he spotted me. He stood still like
a stone statue, not making a sound
or moving a muscle, but I could feel.
I could feel and sense that anger boiling,
like a dormant volcano rumbling, or
a teapot steaming about to blow over.

As far as I could tell, nothing had
made him angry, hell, he was just
standing there like a *****.
Just looking at him was making me
angry too. Something in his face,
the way of his gait, or something.
I couldn't begin to explain it,
but trust me, when I say I wanted
to give him something to be mad about.

I guess the anger got the best of me,
cause without even thinking, I just did,
my muscles clenched, and my teeth did grind,
and that was all that he needed to spot me.
Quicker than a neck snap, his head turned
back as he finally saw me staring him down.

For a minute, he just looked at me
and I looked back at him, both of
us with an expression that colored us red.

Then. He screamed.

He screamed an awful, abominable scream
that rang in my ears and made me recoil,
holding my head in my hands, something
so ugly uttered out of his mouth.
I could hardly look or hear or even think
straight anymore, but I barely saw the
Rage coming for me, running wildly.

Something was keeping my feet grounded,
like some kind of mental quicksand,
I couldn't run or fight or defend,
all I could was scream from within.
I screamed, as he was screaming, and
then something hit me right as he was
about to.

I woke up screaming, but soon stopped.
My skin was sweating, but not in cold ones,
just hot and grimy and smelly, like
I had just ran a marathon or something.
It didn't make no sense, I had just
been sleeping in my bed, but then.

I realized it. The Rage lived within
me. He was me, just another me that
made the me up that you all see.
Every flash of anger, every urge to hurt
every time I wanted to choke or punch
or kick or slap or yell or scream
someone or something, that was The Rage.
Even those days when I could hardly feel
a thing, that demon was still deep in me,
dormant yet dooming and downing me still.

I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.

Time is always passing us by,
leaving us high and dry.
Those days we hope and savor,
seem to fly by like pages of a book.

The good times roll on,
while the bad times stick,
like thick-dark molasses,
but even that too passes.

It's a fact of our grand journey,
that time will ravage all our glory,
our days, our by-ways, and every
which way in between as well.

When the play is over,
and the band has ceased,
and the theater has closed,
little of us will hence remain.

It's a thought that can depress,
into a malaise you can't express,
a raging storm of crisis and doubt
that can spiral into something profound.

But. One thing that can be clutched to,
is a simple fact as true as true.
While time can take so much of us,
our hair, our looks, our medals.

It can leave us old, withered, and grey.
hardly able to remember our names.
or what we've accomplished or did,
but time cannot remove one thing alone.

The moments that shape our souls,
those feelings that strike us deep,
even if the memory doesn't remain,
the sensation remains still in our brain.

That's why it matters most of all,
that we cherish and value those
special moments that can't be
thrown out like week-old garbage.

Take just a moment out of every day,
and think about the times you loved
most and why they mattered so.
Take a picture inside and develop it.

Foster it in the garden of your mind,
so that when we all bid adieu
for that final, fear-filled farewell,
we will leave behind just one moment.

When I lay me down to sleep,
And I try to close my eyes,
And escape to another land,
And yet find myself still awake,
I find myself wondering this one thing.

What is real and what is dream?
What is truth and what is fiction?
What is genuine and what is false?
What makes a dream a dream and reality real?

I can count the many times in my dreams,
When they seemed so real, so very true.
Speaking to family, watching things that could be.
The sensations spoke to me of truth.

Yet once I woke, I could not recall, not at all.
Hardly the faintest remembrance of what I saw.
What I heard, and what I felt, no, not at all.
And many times, I dismissed it at that.

But on those uncertain nights where sleep eludes me,
I look back on those ‘dreams’, and ponder, ponder.
Who can say if those feelings, which seemed so real,
Were, indeed, just a dream, vague remembrances, nothing more.

Could it be so that the land of dreams is the one true reality?
And that our day-to-day lives are the real falsehoods?
And through our ‘dreams’, the only escape into the real world is found.
And yet cursed we are to only see it when we go to sleep.

Then again, perhaps I am merely suggesting lunacy.
And our day to day world is as we know it, real.
And dreams are just pieces of memory glued together.
When one cannot sleep, the mind will wander, wander.

Of this I cannot say what is real and what is dream.
Or what is truth and what is fiction.
All I can truly do is think and wonder.
If reality is not real, but just another dream we are making.

I find myself wondering,
when We became Me?
We were pretty neat,
I'd like to think, at least.

Maybe that was just Me,
and my wishful thinking.
I wished on a star for you,
and maybe that was silly.

Wishes are silly things,
I suppose. Just because
you wish it to be, does
not make it so.

But I know We had fun
while we lasted, and
maybe that's enough for
you. A quick fling.

Don't take that as a jab.
You're free to do as you
wish and with who you want,
but I don't have to agree.

For I wanted more.
I wanted you and
I wanted us to be We,
and yet, I am just Me.

Time is a haunting specter
that no one can deflect,
It stalks us in that Dark,
that knows no name and
strikes in that Light invisible.

It slinks like a skeleton-snake,
slithering and sliding like
a spectral side-winder,
won't see it smile when it
stabs at your soul.

It drains you slowly but surely,
as it makes your hair fall,
and your fair looks fade
till one day you stare inside,
and realize you're nothing
but wrinkles and bones,
waiting to fall to dust.

The fact time passes at all,
should be a felony offense
punishable by death itself,
but let us not mince words.
Death is Time, and Time is Death,
in tandem they work best,
but are yet, one in the same.

The best solution one can find
is to find that magic moment,
frame it like a prized picture,
shoot it like its classic cinema.
Make the most of it so when
Time, that deathly-snake, strikes
you can pass with a smirk and a smile.

Every thought that has ever been thought,
has been said in one form or another.
We have cliches just to describe cliches.
"There is nothing new under the sun".

It is a challenge to say anything new,
or to express any truly original idea.
And likely, if you could do just that,
it would hold little relevance or worth.

"I love you like lamps love electricity".
Sure, no one has likely ever said this,
but what does it mean? What wit is
expressed herein? See what I mean?

So it is the storyteller's quest eternal,
to find the words to express the thoughts
that will touch a person's open heart,
and cause them to feel feelings unfelt.

How can they fulfill this noble duty,
when cliches are so prevalent, and
to be truly original is to be nonsensical,
and life is like a box of chocolates?

It's not an easy question to answer,
but I have pondered and thought,
and here is what I found myself thinking.
The storyteller's plight can be solved.

They must find a rightful balance,
between novelty and well-worn tradition.
The trick of the tale is to say something old
in a unique and distinctive way.

For what every person has is their own voice,
that is something that cannot be duplicated.
The trick is not to say a hundred different things,
but rather, say one thing in a hundred ways.

Each and every person can put their own spin
on those well-worn homilies, or bland bromides,
to make them new and exciting once more,
and speak to that thing called the human condition.

When I look into your amber eyes,
I know I can no longer deny,
the way you make me feel inside.

No more can I, these feelings hide,
No more can I, try to disguise,
No more can I, wonder why.

I got to be true to me,
and got to do good by you,
and let you know these feelings true.

I don't know if you feel the same,
I don't know if you think I'm plain,
or if you'll even recall my name.

But I know if I build this wall,
no matter how big or how tall.
I'll still be loving you all.

So let's cut this white static,
and maybe cause a little havoc,
and maybe make me ecstatic.

You can love me or leave me,
you can hug me or mug me,
you can kiss me or miss me.

I just got to let you know,
so baby, I'll start the show.
Won't you be my loving beau?

When you told me about Burning Man, I must confess,
that I felt the idea was simply a mess.
And now since I see what you really did mean,
I can safely say now that I'm none too keen.

Couldn't we have just gone to Lollapalooza?

I build you up,
I bring you down,
I pull you in,
I throw you out.

I'm tearing you down.

You tried all your life,
to keep me down,
to run me 'round,
to put me in that ground.

You laughed at me,
you spurned my name,
you stomped my face,
you stabbed my heart.

And now, I'm taking it back.
I'll stand my ground,
I'll rip this earth up,
and I'll tear you down.

You built a wall,
to keep me out,
to hold me down,
to lord over all.

You slapped my face,
you called me names,
you spit on my face,
you broke my spirit.

I know deep down,
that you're hurting,
that life beat you down,
but you can't do the same to me

I won't let you tear me down,
and if I gotta, I'll burn you out,
I'll toss you 'round, I'll make you a clown,
I'll mess you up, and I'll tear you down.