I'm part of a cult with no leader.
We take flight from unidentified runways.
King Kong is nothing but a chest beater;
climbing skyscrapers and swatting at planes.
I'm not afraid of the beast.
No, really though, we're quite good friends.
I've been invited to a giant feast,
but no one ever eats because the toast never ends.
Who put this guy in charge anyway?
I'm not okay with his facts.
I propose a mutiny.
Let's all cheers to that!

I know this magic trick where I throw my heart in a hat
then pull out a rabbit.
Only, it's not a rabbit -
it's a snake.
And this is a swamp,
not a stage.
And there are three bite marks on my leg.

I used to write my dreams down
until you showed up.
Now thinking about them just hurts too **** much.

Before you fade off into sleep,
remember to forget about thinking of me.
I'll be the one making that irritating sound;
the one that echoes throughout all your dreams.

When your slow-motion legs sink into quicksand
as you try your hardest to outrun the bogeyman,
I'll be there on the other side -
offering you my hand.

Don't you dare take it.
The chasing devil and saving angel might be one and the same.
Those who know it all and claim to know nothing are without a doubt the most insane.

Give me a break though.
This can't be Real Life.
It's all fake.

Somebody pinch me.

I saw him take off,
launched headlong into the stars,
with gold and orange sparks spiraling out of his arms.

I wondered if he was afraid
to be alone up there with all that empty space,
forever out of reach.

But then maybe, it's not so empty.
Or maybe, he's okay with it.

It will be just how you saw it
in every way that it was promised -
only it won't be any of those things,
because it's really quite the opposite.

Only death lies for the just and honest.

The Sleepers.
The Dreamers.
The Lost and Never Found.
You've left us little choice.
We're moving underground.

The Jokers.
The Smokers.
The Liars and the Thieves.
We're hiding in the basements.
We're underneath your streets.

We're on the road to perdition.
We're spreading our sedition.
Willing to commit treason.
Just give us one more reason.

We were born homesick,
with the taste of freedom on our tongue.
Death is a release to us.
We've been marked for martyrdom.

We will be the rising tide
to wash away the hands that bind;
to crash through kitsch and kitchens;
to smash the grand design.

We are the Unsatisfied.
We are the Discontent.
The Four Horsemen make their ride.
The angels have been sent.
The end is very near now.
Repent for all your crimes.
We sleep beneath your cities,
and we're dreaming of our time.

In a week's time it'll all be fine
You won't have to work so hard
In another life things might turn out alright
But this one feels all wrong

And I know you never wanted any of this
But we don't get to make that call
Now here we stand on a tower of sticks
Just waiting for the fall

But please,
Please
With all the new things you'll see
Don't you forget about me

In a week's time it'll all be fine
He'll come to take you away
I wonder if I was capable of it
If I'd still try to convince you to stay

And I know you never asked for any of this
But he just can't resist your charm
Now take a final look at the place you won't miss
As we walk down the street we grew up on

And it's true
It's true
Despite the things I might do
I'll never forget about you

We both always knew you were destined for greatness
He's got the ticket to take you there
Leave me here to pick up the pieces
I'll try not to think that life is unfair

A flock of birds.
A group of geese.
A gander at a stranger gathering of winged things.

Don't clip mine 'cause I'm running out of time,
and I've got promises to keep and miles to fly.

Just trying to escape the Frost.

I swear I'm on to you;
your subtle way of flirting with every single thing you do.

I'm not into it.

And maybe you're just sick -
infected with an early development problem that's grown into a nasty habit.

Whatever the case may be,
it's become a source of contention.
Lately, I've been thinking -
you're just some ***** who craves attention.

Embracing the end when we're still in the beginning.
Come on now friends;
This isn't living.

Not easily noticed,
and often overlooked -
like some obscure quote
from a lesser known book;
hidden in the footnote.

You've found it,
it's yours.
The X and map are just a reminder of what you own.

You could tell it, but you won't.
You could sell it, but you don't,
because you've found it on your own,
and it's hard to find a home.

Silence tastes like a bit tongue.
A mouthful of iron -
ready to spit blood.

Safe in omission.
Silence is stubborn.
Guilt through admission,
but hidden in cupboards.

Break all the glasses.

Silence sounds like a drama on mute.
Destitute actors waving their arms in vain.
The quiet makes us different,
but it always sounds the same.

He's got a flair for the ironic,
and a stare that's sardonic,
with an attitude that clearly puts people off.
He's got a problem with getting turned on
by the things he thinks are wrong,
and he does it all to better relate to the lyrics of a song.
Attempting to live a literary lifestyle,
that kid is some kind of wild.
He's got soulful eyes,
but I don't trust his smile.
Not the kind of story I like to read.
Surely, he's trouble.
That one's a bad seed.

I wonder how many people have ever felt like this before;
Cowering with the knowledge that there's a rhinoceros on the otherside of their door.

She says I'm just a little too lonely for her.
She says she can't be bothered by a lone ivory horn.

But I was born to wallow,
in a puddle that the better beasts know to avoid.
I was born to swallow mud and cough up fertilized bone;
to choke on marrow while distant gardens grow.

She says my spine can't seem to find the right way to write itself.
I told her she's wrong.

I told her that I can write like a mad man,
that I can grip words and twist them with burning fists that punch holes through preconceived notions like some sort of metaphoric hadouken.

She says it's too vague,
that I've been swept up in the plague of Easter-eggs and internet memes -
that my bad posture and pessimistic mentality are just a reflection of how broken things really are.
Basically, that I'm part of the Problem.

She says that I'm ******* in the wind in a river that's flowing downstream;
That I'll never be able to reconcile the difference between real life and just dreams.
That I'm swimming in ten different types of reality and the only one that should matter to me is the one I can't seem to see.

She says a lot of things,
but I've had it.
From here on out,
I'm not listening.

My sober dreams freak me out.
(Is that a good enough reason?)
This is the only way I know how to escape the memories of things that never actually happened.
(Won't you help me out?)
My convictions leave me full of doubt.
I'm caught up in absurdities.
Awash in irony and drowning on beliefs.
Please throw me a life saving word that can define me.
Just spell it out -
before I lose myself.

Some people are so egocentric
that you have to knock them down a peg or two before they'll be your friend.

You know that ringing in your ears?

You've been gone so long,

That "Eeeeeee?"

and the ache's grown so numb,

That's the sound of the ear cells dying,

that I can finally stand to listen to these songs again,

like their Swan Song.

but they sound different than I remember.

Once it's gone you'll never hear that frequency again.

As if there's something

Enjoy it while it lasts.*

that I'm missing.

"With the birds and shed it's a lonely view."
- Scar Tissue   The Red Hot Chili Peppers
(My brother, I think. It might've been me. Maybe both of us. Still a great song, either way.)

"I came in like a raiiiiiiiiinnbow!"
- Wrecking Ball   Miley Cyrus
(My sister. (Honestly I like her version better.))

"***** deeds, Dunder chief!"
- ***** Deeds   AC/DC
(My dad. Easily my favorite of all these.)

"There goes my hero, watch him as he goes.
There goes my hero: sergeant Harry!"
- My Hero   The Foo Fighters
(This was all me. For the longest time I thought this song was about a real guy. Good ol' Sgt Harry.)

"The boys of Becking town! The boys of Becking towowooown!"
The Boys Are Back In Town   Thin Lizzy
(My dad, again. (He's deaf in one ear.))

A good kid,
just caught up in the mix.
An inescapable situation turned into a monument.

With every fountain passed,
he trades a hard earned coin for a wish.
Just hoping for vacation.
A temporary relief from the horrible sound embedded in him.

The truth is a problematic ensemble of violent violinists.
He's tired of of hearing it.

When there's nobody else
There's always this
And when the wind blows west
My legs will go east

Sitting in the back with a torn flannel sleeve
Listening to someone tell me what it is they believe
I start to think that if this is life, I'd rather stay asleep.

There are so many things
Which I cannot see
But oh how I try to
So desperately
Leaving me in a state of doubtful wisdom
I start to believe
That I'd have been better off if I had just stayed asleep
There aren't any **** heads like you in my dreams

When I see you,
a quiet cheer rises up inside of me,
but then is quickly silenced.

Sometimes I forget to remember that I hate you now.

Sometimes I fantasize about reconciling.

Sometimes I miss your smile.

Scream loud as possible into a freshly washed pillow still soaked with dreams of snakes and her face and friends who don't give a ****.
Raging against self-inflicted wounds wrought by the subconscious.
Two weeks later and infested again.
Muffled yells at half-volume to deal with it.
Manifested from fears like that kid from my nightmare last year with the macaroni in his hair.
I'm still haunted by it.
Feel that wrench in the stomach like an egg-beater twisting my guts.
Scream as loud as I can into a pillow twice-washed.

Punch the walls, feed the host, burn the demons, starve the ghost.
Scream without a filter and break all the windows.

Sleeping again but it never ends; never stops, never quits or gives in.
Always creeping below the surface.
What did I do to deserve this?
Screaming into a pillow thrice-washed.
Laugh at the clock and make friends with the dark.

Burn the walls, starve the host, please the demons, feed the ghost.
Bleeding from a punch to the window.
Self-inflicted ruin to appease the subconscious.
Scream as loud as you can into a wet pillow.

No, really though.
Five bucks for a throw.
Please take me home with you.
I can't stand to be alone.
I can understand if you will
hide me like ***** laundry,
but I've got charm and looks to ****.
Please do what you want with me.

Lately, I've been thinking,
that maybe I've got a lot more left to say.
And maybe I got lost one day along the path that I'd subconsciously laid out for myself way back when.
I think you've been helping me retrace my steps.
I think that might make you a friend.

I've been thinking lately,
that maybe there are far too many words left unsaid.
Maybe I ought to stick around long enough to say them.
Maybe that makes me better off than dead.

My head has been swimming lately,
with all sorts of fantastical fish.
I wish I'd met you sooner.

Maybe the path that I long ago left is a little less buried than I thought it to be.
Maybe a shovel can dig a future as well as a past.
I think you've pulled me out of a grave.

This is my way of thanking you for that.

I wake up, alone,
to an alarm set by my cell phone,
and in a bed that's at least a thousand times more comfortable than my own.

Is that they believe everything that their preachers say,
and nothing that anyone else does.
(Trust issues much?)
It's called brainwashing.
(You see what you do,
because it's what he wants you to.)
As if one silly antiquated book could hold all the answers.
As if one person's interpretation of it could be more valid than another's.

There is more than one mind.
There is more than one book.
There's more than one set of eyes,
so take another look.

This is what you need.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
Everyone is doing it.
Just listen to these true consumer stories.

We've got charts and graphs to prove it.
(We go to great lengths to feed our greed)
This product will fill that hole.
Buy it and finally be happy.

Because we know that you feel alone
in a culture built to make you feel empty.
Look at what it's done for the people you love:
fully endorsed by your favorite celebrities!

You can't live without it.
(Don't you dare doubt it)
We provide it to you out of love
(for a nominal cost)
If you believe in a God above,
and in our country -
if you support our troops,
and want to help our economy -
then you'll pull out your credit card and call the number on your screen.
(give us your money)
To spend it is destiny.

Let us tell you of its miracles.
(We know you're inclined to believe)
We liken our product to the advent of Christ.
(Become a walking advertisement (pay the ******* price))

We've smashed the competition.
This is what you've been wishing for.
Sanctify your existence.
(Buy it now, you mindless sycophantic *****)

If you don't believe what we say,
remember,
it's a virtue to have faith.
It's been reinforced by television, movies, and plays.
We know you pray before you go to sleep every night.
We've got the answer to those prayers.
Buy our product and finally feel alright.
(This is the part where you pay)
What a way to live a life.
Ain't capitalism great?

It's hard to be the 'only' one.
It's no wonder it rhymes with lonely.
Sometimes I feel like I'm sinking
in the middle of a school of fish.
To be singled out by the sharks.
A ****** trail of mist makes me an easy target.
I'm having a hard time with this.
Throw me a life saver or something.

"It's awfully hard to lead when your veins are full of lead,"
I said.
"At least, that's what I've read."

"You read too much then," she said,
then dove off the deep end like some kind of bird.  

I'm having trouble with compiling a digest of everything I've ever heard.
Which is to say, I find it all hard to digest.

Converse with one to get some kind of outlook,
only to desert those notions for the exact converse.

The answer's buried somewhere in a desert, underneath a billion minute grains of other answers,
but the words still flow like leaves in water,
and every minute of it just leaves me feeling number.

If luck be a lady, then I've got her number,
but who be the drawer?
And which drawer did I file it under?

Doomed to forever be concerned with the things that most won't notice - let alone take an interest in.
Fated to state the rules of a game of which most don't know they're playing - whether or not they may be winning.
Always curious.
Ever grasping.
Despairing when they realize that the quest is everlasting.
What is it that makes it thus?
Myself,
the world,
random floating motes of dust.
I'll assign them meaning just to see it fall apart
in the face of a smile.
In the face of indifference.
Caught up in a desperate attempt to recapture one's lost innocence.
A few misplaced words can turn you into just another madman scribbling on the walls.
What keeps it going?
It's the hope that someone,
somewhere,
will understand it all.

My dreams were wickedly serene
With a dose of literal fantasy
Warping my life as-of-late
Into some kind of joy ride
That my subconscious did create

How sweet it is to tap into that
Without even reaching
When I awake, sometimes I wish to go back
My own attempt at leeching
Grabbing for handfuls from the deepest depths of my mind
and pulling them out
Examining the grains
Just to find
A warped and twisted mesh of real life best left
Behind

My life can't wait for my dreams to catch up
There comes a point where dreams aren't enough
To make sense of this constant bombardment of
of . . .
of . . .
How strange it is to find that word without the next
what a trip we take to the new day from the one that we've left

I have trouble defining what life is
Because I can't think of a boundary to what it encompasses
Every waking thought?
Every sleeping plot?
(for more often than not,
my dreams seem to be of a movie.
Scenes from a screen that I vaguely remember to have seen. . . )

When does real life end,
and non-life start?
Can we even comprehend what it means for life to just
Stop.

You can't play on my sympathy.
Those strings are off-limits to you.
This ***** is in need of repairs.
The piano has gone out of tune.

You can't count on my curiosity.
I no longer care what you do.
The experiment is over.
I can't put this data to use.

You can't depend on my desire.
I'm not turned on by your moves.
I refuse to be your dancing partner.
I will never slide into your groove.

(Finally dude!)
All that dismal stuff was negatively affecting your attitude.

To whom can I attribute it to?

(I've been working on my thankful speech.)

"First, but hardly least,
I'd like to thank my mother for having me.

Secondly, I'd like to give a shout out to all the celestial bodies;
Thank you for aligning in such a great way today!

Thirdly, gravity.
It's been there from the beginning,
and it does well to keep me grounded.
I'd be dumbfounded without it!
It totally keeps me centered.

And now, I'd like to issue a disclaimer;
To the beasts with gnashing teeth that occasionally latch onto my back.
Thanks to the bravery of every lion tamer,
I'll never again feel the fear of their false facts!"

What do you do if you can see the strings?
What happens when you can trace them back to their origin:
A pair of double crossed wooden instruments in the hands of some magician?

What do you do then?

Should you muscle The Man out of the way?
Take over, so that you can put on your own kind of play:
enacting the way you've always believed it should be?

Or would you instead,
brandish a pair of scissors
in an attempt to set them all free?

Stand up.
Back off.
Just leave me alone.
These vines have grown over everything,
and it's hard to find a home.

Break through.
Nevermind.
I'll keep this carpet clean.
It's seen things you'll never know.
Only vacuums know what I mean.

Hear me out.
Ignore me.
**** up everything.
Spit it out in failed attempts to capture the moment.

Is pity passed down in the genes?
What about sympathy?
I fear I've inherited an overabundance of both.

It drains me to the point where I feel like a ghost.
Sometimes I wonder if I didn't die a long time ago.

Am I stuck in limbo,
just repeating the same old pattern?

Most prey loathe to be caught,
but some like being chased.

Is not the kind of one you'd want to sing karaoke.
Especially when you're already drunk and surrounded by friends and family.
I temporarily forgot that it makes me cry,
and how this ******* line gets me everytime.
I got two thirds through the song,
then dropped the (screwdriver that we'd been using as an improvised) mic.
**** it. I'm done.
Goodnight.

Beat the walls to fill his cup.
A crumbling mass of gypsum clumps.
Drank it up then sighed at the beauty outside.
The hole he had made was to thank for the view.

I am the King of Mixed Messages.
The Duke of Indecision.
The Prince of Sheer Panic facing a life sentence in prison.

I've sabotaged my subjects;
****** on the peasants.
I'll admit my reign of terror hasn't been none too pleasant.

I was the Monarch of Mayhem;
the Baron of Bones,
but some shining knight pulled a coup and now I'm left here dethroned.

Tonight I'm on that metal horse.
Meta-force.
Went to the bar and met some ******.
**** was talked and shots were poured.
Drank 'em up then got real bored.
Lectured til I heard some snores.
Went back to the bar and got some more.

Diseased without a hope of cure.
Your face is like an emery board,
and your hair is like a handful of snakes curling round a Sycamore.

Throw it up! Down on the floor!
Two more steps and I'm out the door.
Don't compare me to your paramour.
I don't want to know the score.

Baited hook, shiny lure.
Fighting thoughts that can't be ignored,
but I'm not sure what I'm fishing for;

All you'll get are metaphors.

I am no stranger to darkened rooms.
The sun may be shining
but I'm in love with the moon.
She's full of sympathy for my lonely plight.
I am no stranger to the night.

She hides behind clouds, but I'll see it through.
I wax and wane with her many moods,
and when she's full, I'm filled with hope.
She shines on me so that I don't feel so alone.

If I got paid by the bottle, then I'd be a millionaire,
but cash flows in the opposite direction.
The world's not into funding despair.

If heartbreak was a skill set,
then my resume would be top-notch,
but corporate tends to frown upon
stumbling fools who reek of scotch.

The value of dollars tends to cheapen when it comes so easily.
With E! News stories of drunken coked-out celebrities,
I swear,
I've had it up to here.

Our number one commodity -
the American Dream -
has turned into a nightmare.

Everyone loves the dream but I **** it.
I slit the neck of Johnny Appleseed while he slept.
Prometheus ain't got **** on me.
These trees aren't the real thing, you see.
Slippery shrouded shadows mass produced as Mystery.
I left.

Stop it.
Just stop.
It's never really been that bad.
From the way you carry on,
I've got it in my head:
You're only happy when you're sad.

You have to listen to all the ****** things the people on this side of the fence are saying about the people on the other side.
Meanwhile, you have to deal with all the ****** ways the people on the other side are treating the people on this side.
After enough of this, you'll start to get the sense that people are just pretty ****** in general.

I wish they had an app where you could record yourself making vague responses like:
Oh yea?
Mhmm.
Really?
Uh huh.
No kidding.

And then could answer a phone call with said app, which would play all of these pre-recorded responses intermittenly while the person on the other line blabs a bunch of ******* drunken nonsense to someone who they believe is listening.

Let your shining beacon lead me to this foreign shore;
the sands are unfamiliar, but I know I've been here before.
I can recall the curves of this roof as if they were the ceiling to the heights of my own dreams,
with the layout of rooms teasing the deepest parts of my memory.
I've this thing for remembering details -
shapes and scents in particular.
Struck dumb in the shower as a long since past scene takes hold of me;
picking blueberries in the sun.
Playing on the swing set that still yet stands,
as if some ancient monument in a half-forsaken land.
We've both grown a bit rusty.
The chains creak from the strain of my weight,
but nothing ever truly gets forgotten:
I have before and always will belong in this place.

241 and I'm almost done.
Drink until the sun comes up.
Making room for two with one.
More is never quite enough.

Drain it down then get filled up.
I felt empty til you showed up.
Energized now,
I'll try my luck.

"Hey girl, do you wanna F*?"