How exhausting it must be to be the enigma.
To mean everything and nothing at once
to everyone and no one in particular:
To let them down just to pick them up;
to make everyone go nuts.

To have felt this way all of the time,
a(nd) stranger still,
to leave (it) behind.
To enter a place unrestrained by time.
The cost of a ticket,
one price only -
your mind.

Drunky McGee,*
that's my nickname for her,
though lately I wonder
if it doesn't also describe me.

I've never understood the phrase:
*Sweet Irony

No, not like that.
I mean, literally.
I'm about to leave,
and I could use the company.

What do you do when you're proud of yourself for something you're too embarrassed to tell someone else?

Put those feelings on the shelf;
Top dollar purchase for the ones who sell out.

All my friends are down south,
but I'm northward bound because I just had to get out.

Slipping toward the ending of a tale never told.
Beginning in the middle because the intro's been sold now,
with everything falling apart while the false starts suddenly fall into place.

Keeping the old name but creating a new face.

Hit the dusty trail with a broken-down steed.
Feeding off the fumes of hearts in need while delivering gigantic fistfuls of nothing.

My twisted spirit demands recompense.

"With the birds and shed it's a lonely view."
- Scar Tissue   The Red Hot Chili Peppers

"I came in like a raiiiiiiiiinnbow!"
- Wrecking Ball   Miley Cyrus

"***** deeds, Dunder chief!"
- ***** Deeds   AC/DC

"There goes my hero, watch him as he goes.
There goes my hero: sergeant Harry!"
- My Hero   The Foo Fighters

"The boys of Becking town! The boys of Becking towowooown!"
The Boys Are Back In Town   Thin Lizzy

Sometimes, when my friends kiss and tell,
I just want to punch them in the mouth.
I want to find every girl that they're talking **** about,
give them a hug, and say
"It's okay. You're still lovely anyway."

Falling in love isn't always enough.
There are other things to take into account.
Like, "Where is he going?" and "Where has she been?"
"Is this someone I can trust?"

In the silence between what actually gets said,
I imagine the thought bubbles over their head.
Taking stabs at guessing what text lies within.
"Can you keep a secret?"

I make believe they're all blank;
that there's nothing above that quiet stare.
Dismiss all the feelings with one swift thought:
"She doesn't even care."

Ink these panels with callous strokes.
Forced together in a frame we did not choose.
This is the part where I confess my love.
This is the one where you cut me loose.

Fill in all those speech bubbles
with admissions of our lack of worth.
I'm not cut out to be a superhero.
I had to hear it from your mouth first.

Parked the part of myself I'm not so hot about
too close to the part of you that gets fired up
by the proximity of an engine in heat.

I'm having a devil of a time trying to define the stars around your eyes,
but hey, I'm not a cosmetologist.
I just thought maybelline we could dream about pretty things,
and make up lines that coincide with our collided fantasies.
With puffed up lips and fluffy language as safeguards against sudden incites,
tonight we'll finally smash our parts together if only to discover that we don't even like each other -
not even a little bit.

I've been working to discover the extent of our disease.
Some people just aren't happy with being content.
They need chaos for glory and make life a mess.
Nevermind the ways they pay rent.
We live for the night.
Could give a **** about how our days are spent.

I've been experimenting with decisions and their consequence;
Data inconclusive.
I've been working on a new hypothesis:
What if Mother Nature's disasters are just metaphors for the storms inside our heads?
Hurricanes, tornadoes, volcanoes, earthquakes;
Whirlwinds of action, body tremors, passion -
now I've got the shakes.

My nerves are shot,
but I'm getting ever closer to something.
I couldn't tell you what.
It's been deemed a lost cause and my funding has been cut,
but I'm not giving up.
I swear, there's hope for us.

Here for one word and that word is a miss.
Forgone the phone and the **** and whatnot.
Things in the attic that drip through the floor.
Waking up in quicksand.

I hear them come quick
in short little fits.
Tainted bursts lifted out of lungs thick with poison.

Deal with this.
"Yo, pass that ****."
Glide through mists of green grass, red brick, and grey stone.

This is not my backyard.

"Please stay with me so I'm not all alone."
Pale fingers on a quest to make contact with skin.
"I'm so overwhelmed, I don't know where to begin."
I'm never going back home again.
It doesn't even exist.

She says there's a system.
God made all the rules and set it in motion,
then calmly walked away
to leave us to our own devices (enterprises, surprises, demises)
Come what may.

"There's a philosopher who said that some people spend too much time playing with the meaning of objects in their heads. It can get to a point where nothing makes any sense, and they go crazy. Some of these people find a way to describe it, and they're known as poets."

The moon knows better than anyone,
with her sly smile reflected off the lake,
and all that light stolen from the sun.

"Do you know what I wish?"
No, and please, don't finish.
We are far from being done.
Let's not end it before we've begun.

This is my backyard.

If I'm just a zero,
then you are the one.

Are you sure you want to slip into that drink?
Being numb to the world isn't as great as you think.
Granted, it can make dealing with people easier.
It's hard to give a **** when you just want to sleep.

But you'll say things.
Things that are strange and mean and way out of character.
You'll become a caricature of your former self.
Even if you never knew who you were before,
rest assured, the drinking does not help.
Soul searching goes out the window when you're constantly blacked out.

But you won't be able to do it every night, try as you might.
Some entire days will be spent in bedridden recovery.
Your body will finally give in to that much needed sleep -
the kind you've been painfully longing for all week.
But the bliss you'll feel at this will be bittersweet,
because it's during these times that you'll dream.
You'll dream alright.
Frightful things that I can't even begin to describe.
Mountains of dread that will tear you to shreds,
and they'll feel far more real than your liquor-drenched life.

They'll drive you from your bed
to go and do it over again.
Make another fool out of yourself.
Alienate all your friends.
"Ah, **** 'em! Who needs 'em?
I don't even like them anymore."
Then the rumours will spread.
They'll call you a *****.
They'll call you a *******, a liar, and weak.
And they'll be nothing you can do about it,
because no one takes you seriously.
Even if they never say it out loud (and they won't,)
you'll know it's what they're thinking.
(Projecting is a psychological side effect of continued excessive drinking.)

There will be times in between,
fleeting moments of clarity,
where you'll look into a mirror and think:
What the hell is happening to me?
You'll catch at a thought as it crawls through your brain
and realize it's completely crazy -
that you are actually (no ****, legit) going in-*******-sane,
and you'll laugh.
You'll laugh because you'll know exactly who's to blame.
You'll be freaked out and terrified,
but you'll laugh all the same.

There will be other times too,
after all the rants and raves and screams and shouts,
the tears and fears and crippling doubts -
there will come a time when you want out,
but by then it will already be too late.
They'll be nothing left inside but anger and hate.

So before you sink into that drink, I say,
Wait!
Before you go breaking hearts and lose all your friends,
get out while you still can.
I hope you're listening.
I pray you comprehend,
because if shame doesn't do it first,
the dreams will get you in the end.

This is the torch that burned your parents.
"Hand it here," said the children.

Everyone loves a low-born story,
as opposed to the thematically villainous silver spoon -
unless of course they give up too soon,
and let themselves be consumed by the rest.

*Could've been someone,
maybe even one of the best.

You can throw your mess into my mess and mix until we have a 17-car pileup with no need to clean because we'll be up to our knees in blood and guts.
We can cross flooded streets with lightning rods strapped to our backs  and pray for the rain to send us some thunderous crash.

If I told you that Jupiter views its moons through a stormy eye,
would you see red?

Who would've thought we'd survive.

Add your bricks to my bricks and we'll entomb our feet with wet cement while we wait for the water to rise.
Grab your bike with the taped over reflectors then we'll ride down one-lane bridges dressed as reapers in the night.
You can throw your mess in with my mess and let it stew until we've got a steaming trainwreck and no way to clean because we'll be up to our necks in blood and guts.

If I told you a new moon happens only once a month,
would you black out?

Who would've thought we'd see light.

Feelings are fleeting,
and I won't pretend
that my thoughts aren't unreeling from a pole that will bend.
You broke me once -
it won't happen again.

Take that to the bank.
Go tell a friend.
There's a gap between where you begin and I end.

Fighters are fleeing,
but it's not so tough.
Can't see red until you give me enough.

You've given me nothing,
so what's this about?
A war over who gets this castle of clouds?
It's always been mine.
I'm kicking you out.

Servants are sweeping.
Seasons are seething.
Grumpy is Sneezing.
How's that for a painting?

Feelings are fleeting.
Anger and doubt.
Peace and serenity.
Go figure it out.

I've spent the majority of my life developing the body while ignoring the mind.
Wait, I mean it's the other way around.
I get confused sometimes.

A hard day's night.
My car's on the street.
The lights of the bars are beckoning me.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep . . . )

"Walking disaster -
how long can he last?"
They place wagers on my defeat.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams.)

I go faster,
and drive right past.
I've made promises I intend to keep.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams,
and I've got an axe.)

A hard day's end.
I drift off to sleep.
Another mark tallied; this makes three weeks.
Robert Frost and I celebrate small victories.

There goes dinner.
There goes lunch.
There goes breakfast,
and forget about brunch.

(My diet is absurd.
One can't survive on just words.)

Nevermind health.
Nevermind peace.
I forgot how to eat.
I'm just feeding off sleep.

Between each and every line.
Feelings can build monuments,
as they can be our own demise.

You make me feel nostalgic for things that never happened.
You remind me of someone who I never got to truly know.
Random person in the world,
it seems we'll only ever be granted fleeting glimpses of each other's soul.
Then we'll lay it down to rest.
Some things are best left unknown.

Why do you only say it when you're drunk?
If you can't say it otherwise, then I'd rather you not
say it
at all
EVER!
Save your kisses and hugs.
It doesn't mean nearly as much.
It doesn't mean a thing.
Don't expect me to believe it.
You're full of ****.

Some people are too quick to tell you that you're being a ****.
Meanwhile, there are others who are way too polite to even think of mentioning it.
If you're the type to give a ****,
then this could be a real problem.

If you draw a minus sign through the first angle of the first N in the word None, then you'll end up all Alone.

"Hey kid, you'll go far
because you're just so friggin' smart,
and nevermind this art ****."

Common sense dictates that you'll have to pay expenses.

I'm being pulled apart by forceful influences.

They say,
"Everybody's dying just to get the disease,"
but their silly guilt trips don't make me want to fall down on my knees
and pray.

Oh they say,

They say quite an awful lot of things,
but none of it means anything to me.

(Let them make all of their money.
Let them say that I look funny.
I won't let them swallow me whole while they rub their hallow tummies.)

Common sense dictates that I'll have to pay expenses,
but I take offense to the thought that I'm being pulled apart by outside influences.

Let them talk . . .

I miss getting high with my friends,
and just people-watching.

Hermits and heroes.
Pariahs and piranhas.
People are full of such contrasting colors.

A friend said, "That kid's not right in the head,"
and without even asking, I knew who he meant.
I couldn't tell you how many nights we'd spent together.
The only difference is, to me,
he always made sense.

I got a little carried away
by the way you say my name.
A little caught up by your make-up.
Lost in your eyes -
it's hardly a surprise -
how easily I fall in love.

Oops.

I just made it real.
I've felt empty for so long,
and you made me feel.
(Oh, to feel!)
I didn't mean to project my feelings onto you,
but everyone seems so fake,
and you seem so real.

Oops.

I didn't mean to smile that time.
I've been trying to stay mad at you
for making me lose my mind.

Oops.

I've got to get away from you.
These feelings make me want to die.
I'm jealous of everyone you talk to.
Why can't you be mine?

Oops,
oh ****,
I really ****** up this time.
I can't see a thing,
your beauty's got me blind.
Abandon ship!
Get out fast!
I swore I'll never love again because it never lasts.

Oops.

I died.

I didn't mean to,
just like how I never meant to turn red
whenever I heard your voice.
It's just so full of life.
Could you please sing at my funeral now that I'm dead?
I bet that'll make 'em cry.

When I was much younger,
and tried to picture Our Father,
for some reason, I always thought of my own:

God is a man with a dark red tan,
pale blue eyes, and big strong hands.
God is a guy with a hammer on his thigh,
hanging from a carpenter's belt
above blue-jeaned legs.
He wears a T-shirt that I think once used to be grey,
but faded by the sun to an almost off-white.
He wears a mesh navy cap. The one He always wore.
The one he got from his days as a volunteer fire-fighter.
The only thing I pictured differently was the hair:
Curlier, and instead of being brown,
it was golden blonde.

I used to see my dad when I'd think about God.
In many ways, I still do.

Good God kid!
Now I remember all of it:
I was just a do-gooder passing through.
Like some sort of ghost, like a wisp,
amazed that I had somehow found my way onto the guest list.
No wonder I got so drunk.
No wonder I was constantly throwing up.
I couldn't handle it -
being in the midst of such intelligence.
But I was hooked.
I knew this was where true inspiration lives.

But it scared me so I fled into self-sentenced exile.
You knew she wasn't the one, you knew all the while.
I struggled and bled. I thought of things we had said.
I tried to lead a proper life,
but I felt already dead.

So I returned,
but in the wake of a irrevocable mistake.
Much like I remembered, but it wasn't the same place.
A shadow loomed over. Everything was changed.
And though you were glad that I was back again,
it was clear that you were devastated by the death of a friend.
I couldn't relate.

Still, I tried. All those that knew him; how they cried.
There I was, with just a broken heart.
It felt like nothing compared.
I'd never loved anyone who had died.  

But time goes by, and supposedly, it heals all wounds.
We were having fun again, feeling alive before too soon.
Then everything changed when you were going to move.
Afraid of what I stood to lose,
I decided to move with you too.

We got ourselves into situations with which we could not cope.
Communicating got harder and we began to lose hope.
The gap between one life and another can seem so vast.
I moved back home again and our lives took separate paths.

Here I am rehashing the past,
without you.

So where are we now?
Has it all gone so south?
Seems like there's more complaints than profundities spilling out of our mouths.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it our fate all along?

No.

No way.

Fate was always something we defied.
But I worry about you sometimes.
I thought about you today.
Why didn't you take my call tonight?

Fields of bridges burn while I'm
waiting for my turn,
and she looks into my eyes while I
hear my feelings die.
Screaming loud and wild.
I pull them down beneath the surface
to drown under my silence.
My heart is blackened tar.
My mind's a searing furnace.
Your eyes are just a canvas for my mental plants to flourish.

You don't even live in a world that I visit.
Seen only on postcards,
and heard through second-hand descriptions.
I think I saw a commercial for it once on television.
People were splashing and swimming in crystal blue water.
The kind that makes you want a drink
when you're not even thirsty.
I'm fine where I am, thanks.
Go ahead and desert me.

He walks in through the front door;
a slim jim in one hand,
a four pack of beer in the other.
He looks at the tv screen to see a blond teen crying.

"What are you watching?"
he says as he crosses the room.
"Intervention," she says from the couch,
with a cup of beer on the table in front of her.

"OOoohh," he says with sarcastic interest.
In a way, it makes sense.
"It makes me a better person . . . " she says quietly,
almost to herself.

But he heard her.
"Watching a tv show makes you a better person?
How the hell does that work?"
His words full of doubt.

"Well, because I've had two husbands who were addicted to drugs, an-"

"And you're not? Ha!
Alcohol's a drug too,
sweetheart."

"Yea, but . . . it's not like I get drunk every night."

"Denial," he says, as he makes his way to the fridge.
"That's the first stage," he exclaims, as he pulls a beer loose from its ring.

"You're one to talk!" she yells from the couch.

He says to himself,
"Yea, well; takes one to know one,"
as he walks out.

I felt the switch engage,
and wondered why you couldn't do the same for me.
This car can go 140 babe, and it ain't got no roll-cage.
If only women could respond as quickly as machines.
Just put the pedal to the metal sweetheart,
so hang on to your seat.
I gave you a baby.
I bought you a ring.
I told you that I love you.
This is how you thank me?
Oh no.
You got a little more than you bargained for
when you asked for a ride home.
You've got another thing coming.
Like that semi headed right for us.
Just hear that engine sing!
Like that little piece of me and you.
If you think that it should die,
then why don't we die too!?
Let's all go out together,
like one, two, and little three.
We can haunt this road forever;
we'll be a ghostly family!

I've been repeating rhymes since 1989.
Writing my letters backwards - still can't draw a straight line,
but I could paint you a pretty picture of a troubled prince.

I wasn't old enough at the time,
but I've been partying like it's 1999 ever since.

Doing what I can just to feel more alive,
because I've always had trouble sleeping at night,
so I look for adventure wherever I can find it.
I've gotten lost a few times but can't say that I mind it.

When the things I've picked up along the way come back to stake their claim;
I fight it.
I'll be alright.
I purge.
I writhe.
I write.

I've been recycling lines since 2009,
but getting more sleep ever since I lost my mind.
Almost two halves closer
to achieving half-remembered dreams,
but can only imagine where I'll be come 2019.

Guess what I did after your dry wedding.
(Get drunk.)
Guess what I did after I met your kids.
(Get drunk.)
Guess what I did after that thing happened that I didn't know how to deal with.
(I'd be more specific if I could actually remember it.)

Caught up in the space between the first word and the next
While I'm breathing softly into my sweet lover's neck
And when she stirs I feel a burn swell up inside my chest
Of all the tales I've ever heard; I like this one the best

Give me art
Give me passion
Give me a different interpretation for these moments passing
Give me a total appreciation for this scene before my eyes
This scene that no one else will ever get to see
This scene that only I will ever be able to believe
I love it all the more because it can't be explained
Make me go crazy
Drive me insane
Clear that blocked path that's always been hiding in the back of my brain
Give me that power
The one that comes straight from the heart
Give me more passion
Give me more art

If I were here,
before I got here,
then I swear I arrived on accident.
I think I'll leave before you get me to believe that this is all just a concraxodent.

Third round on Thursday and waiting for hearse day.
Rehearsed for this moment;
Forgot what I was gonna say.
She says it's all the same but in a different way.

"Styles are incarnations of something that stays constant."
I disagreed with it and caused an upheaval.
They said I'm no good,
I told them I'm evil.
Often the devil takes hold of my tongue.
Stringing words together in a way that feels fun:
Astonished five flowers with burgundy scents.
Fell to the floor in a fit of nonsense.
"are you okay?"
That's an understatement.
Just give me four minutes to be born again.

The great thing about a slow-cooker is that you can make one meal on Sunday and have dinner covered for the rest of the week.

The downside of a slow-cooker is that you'll be eating the same thing for dinner all week.

Sure as ****, we'll deal with it.
It's only as bad as its ever been.
Filled to the brim -
we'll take sips to keep it from overflowing.
Whatchu know about it?
Sunk in soiled circumstances.
Interconnected systems perpetuating lifestyle choices
boiled down into easily digested commercial advertisements.
Yea, I've been craving for that thing for reasons I can't explain.
Subconscious whims leading me to succumb to it.

Sure as sin,
we're all doomed to fail before we begin.
The only saints left are singing long forgotten hymns on forsaken street corners.
I could give two *****.

Add them up.
Divide by the average number of birthday wishes that could never quell the flames.
We're all forsaken.
We've only ourselves to blame.

Oh ****.
Oh no.
I've slipped into a slippery dance with all of the things I've always feared, and all of the things I'll never know,
and I can't tell anymore if it's joy or sadness that causes all these tears,
but it hardly makes a difference, so long as I can still feel this:
a precious presence in the bones;
a song sung by the body that makes me feel not so alone.

I'd kiss you on the forehead.
I'll kiss both of your eyes.
Remembering to feel alive, at least until we one day die.

If I could manipulate time, then I'd put us both in the same instant,
to breath shared air,
if only for a minute.

Backed into a corner.
Folded over four hundred times.
"I thank whatever gods may be"
for my indeterminable mind.

Thrown about like little Jack Horner.
I've never cared much for pie.
Christmas either, for that matter.
"If you are me then who am I?"

Somebody sent on a suicide mission.
Grand plans of livin' but doomed to die.
She smiled wide after I delivered that line,
and a small part inside of me died.

I'd be better off if I could get paid to cry.
I'll try not to be so stubborn about it.
In forty-two seconds I'm bound to forget.
Wait, what were we talking about just now?
How much of this have I already said?

If there's bliss in ignorance then there's sadness in truth.
I once loved a girl whose mother's name was Ruth.
It's a Biblical thing.
She was mostly Adam and I was niEve.

I sometimes get lost when walking down familiar streets.
It may not be the greatest thing,
but hey,
it's still pretty neat.