To the municipality of my right side brain,
I send you this letter wishing you well,
Asking you kindly for a drop of water,
I know the well has been run dry,
And the rivers are beginning to tire,
Know I'd be forever in debt,
If I were spared just a drop of water.

There's a head on my shoulder,
I'm detached from the floor,
Nothing unusual but it feels brutal,
Though I feel pretty glued,
For now, while the head's on my shoulder.

From a racing heart,
To exhaling smoke,
I'll blame it on the ****.

It's all a state of limbo,
The sound of the song,
To the rhyme of the lyrics,
I can't get it out,
If I'm not quick enough,
I feel it well up inside,
To the point where,
It's all gonna explode,
And I could make a mess,
I'm certainly a mess,
I know my bedroom floor,
It would hate to be dirtied.

Now, sir, where have you taken my heart?
It's not at the dump cause I'm feeling great,
And it's not in limbo cause I've got closure,
So what have you done?

I think there's something special in the works,
Brewing and stewing in my vocal chords,
I could call it an, 'I love you' but it's too soon,
The center is still much too cold,
I hope you won't mind the wait.

There's a touch I'd like from you,
It's more than just the touch of lust,
The hand that's gentle and warm,
Like a cup of fresh cocoa.

I know there's something special in the works,
A buttery sweet sort of brew to sip upon,
I might begin to call it an 'I love you' but in due time,
The ingredients haven't all been added,
I hope you won't mind the wait.

Even as I dance with you,
A cheesy ballad or two,
Maybe a cuddle to boot,
now, sir, there's nowhere else I'd be.

I think there's something special in the works,
Brewing and stewing in my vocal chords,
I could call it an, 'I love you' but it's too soon,
The center is still much too cold,
I hope you won't mind the wait.

It's a forest parted from the trees,
All of it is incomplete,
I will run until I’m free,
Till the end of dooms-day,
Faced by the wretched beasts,
Radioactive six foot wolves,
Mutated hungry killer bears,
Am I here to be consumed?
Or do I concede to them?
Never free am I then?

Made to hate my bones,
Came too close to a grave,
Underneath the porch I'll stay,
To hide from the ivory fangs.