What some called faith was only fear-
distraction was all that they held dear.
I tell you the truth will be hard to hear
if you've still got something in your ear.

I've got nothing, and nothing is mine.
I've got no god who gives me no sign.
I've got no church, which suits me fine-
at least I'm allowed to enjoy the wine.

At night I can sleep on solid ground,
and listen as nothing makes a sound.
In the daylight I can look all around-
finding delight where nothing is found.

I too have witnessed the ethereal glow,
not from above, nor from below,
but from moonlit footprints in the snow-
from nothing I came, so to nothing I'll go.

You are not Atlas, who holds the earth;
nor are you Hades, who hides below.
You are but mortal, and yet you choose-
therefore you must choose to go.

Go into a world of blood and bones-
this monster begging for its ****;
it’s true, there may be only death,
but you must choose to go there still.

Go into this life which may be illusion,
and build your truth there anyway-
these temples of sand will fall in time
while sand itself will surely stay.

Go into this battle every single day,
and vanquish whatever land you roam,
so when your campaign is met by night-
there will be no shame in going home.

Deep in the comfort of my darkness,
and numb enough to succumb to sleep,
I stare in silence through the shadow-
through the comfort, through the deep.

When in my still there comes a wind
that pierces through the clouds in me;
the curtains dance like shaken spirits
while my spirit aches to be shook free.

My window aligns to the city streets,
but I care not for what lights they see-
for I in my waking see their judgment
would tame the flow of my destiny.

A voice now calls me to the mountain
where I am to finally write my book-
and maybe there I'll reclaim the years
that all this darkness and comfort took.

I am but another of those
cigarettes in San Francisco’s
singing, silent early streets-
falling from the fire escape
and wrapped in hotel sheets.
When all of life was nothing
but some spinning fiery rings,
and in a time when we had time
to waste on precious things.

Setting deadly streets aglow
in frozen, dancing Chicago-
I am the call of the moon,
the song of night, the howl
of the restless night owl
perched forever out of
place and out of pace,
yet promising forever still
to save our human race.

New York City, lit in name,
but dark and brooding all the same-
let me shine upon your dock
for every weary pilgrim
upon every distant rock,
and for every paper plane
toppling your house of cards-
let us look past our broken hearts,
for we’ve ignored another’s pain.

I too am the merciless, wild lands;
a sea of fire in cupped hands-
and like a vulture for its prey,
I stand along the highway long
as golden starmen play my song.
Unchained, untrained, and undefined;
take the ticket, light the mind.
Breathe me in, be free to see,
for it’s not freedom if it’s blind.

I do
because
I’m afraid
to.

I swim
because
I’m afraid
to dry.

I drown
because
I’m afraid
to fly.

I dive
because
I’m afraid
to die.

I live,
because
I’m afraid,
alive.

You are the love of my life, my dear,
a love that grows with each new year,
so please do be truly willing to hear
me confess: my love has left your rear.

I knew you'd find this news alarming,
and regret I couldn't be more disarming!
I know that I am no Prince Charming
but who in here is your health harming?

We used to dance beneath a burning sun,
and then when we felt like it, we'd run.
Remember how often the day was fun-
please don't tell me those days are done.

If you love me the way you say you do,
you'd love the song of the summer too.
You'd love what I love, the way I grew,
and more so still, you would love you.

There is a room as old as war
without a window or a door.
In here is none but the smoky den
of too many torn and immortal men.

Through Brazen Bull they'd stay unslain
though men are strongly swayed by pain,
thus here are the most unholy tales-
for hidden within was a Cat O' Nine Tails.

The fiend who found it holds it still,
whose morphing face appears at will
to mimic a president, parent, or pastor,
though his name is always, "Master".

Most men fall to Master's feet
and swear, declaring their defeat.
From his wrath they shall be saved
so long as they remain enslaved.

A few will wrestle and risk the knot-
most will fall, but some will not.
Just give the clock a little spin,
and Master's changed his face again.