Caught up in,
pulled off course,
stabbed in the back,
and thrown a bone,

by,

pretty people's music,

pretty people's TV,

pretty people's movies,

pretty people's stories,

pretty people's poetry.

Shattered memories,
fly to my feet,
in a certain sound.

Picking up the pieces,
piecing them together,
in a certain sound.

Building a mirror,
reflecting a petty, warless me, long searched for,
ancient feelings,
and a current comparison.

When sounds broke down walls,
and sights crashed through windows.

My unrealistic desires,
roll from the back to the front of my eyes again.

And I'm hijacked by a powerful urge,
to right my wrongs, and heal my world.

To regain the impossible,
upon seeing it in the pretty grips,
of yearned others.

But jealously fills me to the brim,
and toxicity spills over the rim.


Now nothing means everything to me.

The stars won't tear down the bright, blue sky for good.
The moon never stays hanging high forever.
Not even the deepest reaches of space keeps hostages.

The sun will shine again,

if you let it.

Let it...

War waged in a stare,
into your eyes, I lose,
all in shakes of hands.

A shinning, blinding red gem,
or maybe a shooting star,

took a human form,
walked through those holy double doors,
and went by a very fitting name.

Meet it,
love it,
need it,
take it.

Breed it,
bleed it,
leave it,
need it.

Kings and queens,
lowered to peasants,

under the new higher tyranny,
of plastic effigies.

Kings and queens,
deserving of their thrones,

overthrown,
by perfect impossibilities.


The eyes of the beholders,
hidden under a grey sea,
of false, faulty fresh meat.


Please, please, oh, please...

Don't cut and starve yourself into a mannequin.

Static eyes,
statue lips.

I'm comin' home.

My cradled soul,
hanging by a thread,

and I know.

I'm comin' home.

Soldiers went marching up,
most came tumbling down.

I'm comin' home.

Seven different pills in a clear, plastic cup,

getting harder every day to get down.

I'm comin' home.


Time is a ******* of a being.

Where are the keys?

Your guardians and your kin,
will gladly take you to the circus, you don't even have to move an inch.

You'll spend those days stuck playing games,
of which you never win.

I encourage your whole household to join a band,
Dad on guitar, Mom on bass,
they're picture perfect at pulling strings.

And your siblings can share the drums,
they love to keep the repetitive chaotic noise alive,
just hope and pray they don't tear each other's arms off.

Dear Miss Healer, I tore my veins from the surface for you,
and you sunk your teeth in.

Stabbed, jabbed, pushed that shard of young ancient mirror deeper in.

And I gave in.

I bled a whole, entire ocean,
and the well's still flowing,
with your teeth sunk in.

followed by pictured arrows, bolts, spears, covered in a new familiar toxin.

And I gave in.

If I lie here, hemorrhaging,
maybe my everything will clot, eventually,
with your teeth sunk in.

And I'll give in.

We're all wide-eyed,
shaved lambs,
to our social slaughter,

but along came our rebel herder,
the Serotonin Queen,
crowning.


We'll soon be a kingdom,
carefree.

We'll all be leading royalty,
known,

and you,
held high, sitting upon the throne.


Save us from ourselves.

We all share the same cell,
each other as our unknowing, unwilling captors.

Save us from ourselves.

We cut our teeth in this circle,
but you're leading the baring,
and guiding the biting down.

I've got scars.
How? You don't wanna know.
Believe me, kid, you don't wanna know.


I've got scars.
War? In a way, you could say,
but no, no, no, no.


I've got scars.
The one on my cheek?
Does it show? Does it show?

You've been working for so, so long,
that the potted dandelion by your bedside
is clasping on at the brink of a lonely, colorless death,

completely drained.

But with your long-awaited return,
and all those needed words you said,
has turned it a sunny side yellow again.

Join me,
in the cornfield,
run ashore from your sea.

In here, the stalks are your shield.

There's no longer any locks, but there still remains a key,
wonder who that might be?

Put down the sword you wield,
rather, knight the scarecrows,
this is our victory.

Come get lost in the cornfield with me...