Pride is good.
Fear is bad.
But it's velocity that makes me sad.

Here I come.
False alarm.
Tents and fireworks to keep me warm.

Well, I can't say, what I don't know.
What's a ship without a captain after all?
And I can't preach, what I don't pray;
As I fall for every empty word I say.

And I wander, too.
And I wonder, too.

I stole a dream.
I wrestled a bear.
I watched the sun go down in Lincoln Square.

I stood upright.
I flexed my chest.
A heart in agony I went to bed.

Now here I come. Down the hall.
I keep my front door open after all.
But I can't preach, where I don't pray.
And I fall for every empty word I say.

And I wander, too.
And I wonder, too.

In the clouds - will I need a reason?
In the clouds - will I need to brag?
I can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all.

Eyes fixed on the sun.
Shoulders back.
Back straight.
Chest out.
Solid breath.
Eyes fixed on the sun.
Eyes fixed on the sun.

Control is an illusion created by fear
Consumed by the restless, caught begging for sleep
Reflection is ruthless, a bottomless pit
A strange kind of way of breaking a kid

Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building and building and building away"

A body that wanders sets foot on new ground
So a mind that wanders is a mind that expands
A mind that expands is a mind that creates
Textures and shapes and colors and sounds

Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building and building and building away"

A mind that reflects is trapped in itself
Constantly spinning in a conical shape
A circular fashion, more narrow each day
Until it's caught, and sealed, and safely stored away

Meal plans, and caffeine, and bucket lists say
Treadmills, and timesheets, and calendars say
Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building, we're building. Keep building away"

I like my coffee black.

But only on weekdays. It starts my day the way I am supposed to act: strong. And bitter. Yeah. You heard me. Bitter is the new ambitious. Why would you want to sugarcoat anything? To make it delicious? Of course it tastes better. Fraud always tastes better.

I’d chug a whole mug of that liquefied energy. You know, ‘cause I’m tough. And it gets me going. If I were able to replace 2 or 3 hours of sleep with just another cup in the morning - I’d do it in a heartbeat - In a **** fast heartbeat - sped up by caffeine. Or placebos. Or whatever it is that makes me dive into this meaningless mess over and over again.

I thought it used to be the sun? Through a cracked open window.
I thought it used to be robins and sparrows? Soft and gentle, as they pursue what God wanted them to pursue: Singing.
Or at least passion, desire, initiative, thirst.
But I’m not thirsty.
If I was thirsty, I’d drink water.
I used to drink water.
Lots of water.

Now I’m having coffee. And I’m having it black. Now I’m floating along with the stream. Right away! Down the river, along with all those wooden rafts. Constructed in a split second. Only built to keep one man afloat. Tops.

Hey Daddy, look, I got a brand new sports-car. Steering a course that’s most likely headed nowhere.
Hey Mommy, look, I’m going nowhere. But I am going twice as fast.

Well what can I say?
I like my mornings rough.
And I like my cars fast.
And I like my days unremarkable.
I like my fingers desperately trying to cling to every tiny bit of freedom, as small as it may be.
And I like my art unrevealed.
I like my poems unread.
I like my voice unheard.

And I like my coffee black. I just like the taste of it.

I clutch all my cups again
a flask, a fifth, a brew.
And I hop on the shelf again.
Faces soaked in perfume.

An old friend escorts me home.
He tends to drag me back way past 2.
"This world ain't a place for the drunk" he says
and he waits 'till I wake up at noon.

A hand glides through my hair again
with confidence that I tend to lack.
A kiss, bought with a drink again,
Five bucks that I'd rather take back.

I waste all my paint again
on drawings of beaches and birds.  
Blue fades into grey again
I drain off and start scribbling words.

And I claim that my philosophy
explains all my books and their flaws.
But I stack them up on the shelf again
to decorate my bedroom wall.
They look pretty on my bedroom wall.

_


Then she cracks a smile again
her gait, her eyes, and her soul
reflect mankind's greatest commodity:
the promise of a greater hope.

And I dream all my dreams again,
sleepwalking through my life.
Don't you dare wake me up I say,
how I long for that spark in her eyes.