This is for those
Who wear a sleeve on their heart
Because its cold, needs warmth
and it likes the dark
And this is for the ones
with hands on their time
who need a little break
just to clear out their mind

It's funny how a women
can make your head spin
Just like the *****
we've been chasin'
A pretty smile
and a bashful look away
can make you feel
like everything's okay
Forget about pain
and every lost fist fight
her soft eyes
make this the perfect night
I can see her
drinking her ***
I can see me
falling in love
I can see her
sizing me up
I can see me
falling...

In love
in the bathroom hallway
You've got her up
between a rock wall and a hard place
You can see the pleasure
written on her face
and have to imagine
how her lips taste
Too drunk,
every sense has gone numb
Your fingers fumble
on the trigger of her loaded gun
when she asks,
"Do you wanna get outta here?"
You catch your breath
while she grabs one last beer

I fell in love
with the way things used to be
I always come close
but it never comes easy
You have to make love
before you fall into it
Or maybe it's a lie
thats been made up for the kids

All alone,
my mind's over analyzing
I reconnect
with the romantic inside me
I wonder if
this will ever mean anything
Is that my guilt
or my heartbeat racing?
It's probably best
to slow down our pace
Calm myself,
splash water over my face
I finally think
I'm starting to cool down
when someone starts
shooting all the lights out

I'm blacking out
in a barroom bathroom
Waking up
in a ballroom bedroom
The ceiling fan
is spinning softly
but maybe it's the bed,
or maybe it's just me

Well I guess
this is already going down
It's far too late
to try and turn back now
She can feel something's off
by the way I'm breathing
So she whispers
that she really needs me
Tomorrow this will mean
nothing to her
even as she guides
my hand up her skirt
I decide
to get this over with when
the darkness steals
the night away again...

I get laden back
After having too much to think

The womb of the mind
births a child of fear

I wish I was David,
David Duchovny -
not the characters he plays
but the man capable of playing them.

I want you to believe that I want to believe.

I want you to believe.
That, I want to believe.

I want you to believe that.

I want to believe.

A milky layer ascended
and your eyes became
opalescent
The fluidity found
within that blue gaze
was trapped under ice
like a mighty river
snared in December
And all I could ask myself
was "Is she alive?"

The colour rushed from your cheeks

From the red of the blood
that dripped from your septum
due to the ivory powder
you inhaled for perfection
and the blacks and the bruise
of lies and deception
to the green of greed
and yellow of attention

You grew pale
like a corpse
under a cool moon
made of melancholy
and miseries

I'll admit, though
I admired your animosity
The way you chose not to care
almost seemed passionate and planned
rather than spun together
by years of defeat

When I finally realized you weren't coming back
I began to panic

My eyes darted over the phone
and my fingers began to dizzy
I struggled to find the nine
that came before the ones

And just when I believed you were gone
when I thought we had lost any hope
you gasped

The shuddering sound you made
as you grabbed onto that last sliver of life
will haunt my nights
for weeks to come

It was all too beautiful

Is there life after death?
What will happen in the end?
What's the difference in thinking
between women and men?
What's the meaning of life?
How'd it all begin?
If there's a battle for our lives
will good or evil win?
Do ghosts exist,
or the monsters 'neath my bed?
Is this all a dream
that I've made in my head?
Is the world what's moving,
and I'm always still?
Are we guided by fate
or our own free will?
What came first,
the calf or the bull?
Is my glass half empty
or is it half full?
What is love?
How long will I live?
In order to take
must one also give?
Did the Sopranos all die?
Is karma legit?
Ask yourself this:

Should I even give a ****?

I am afraid
that we can't coexist.
For I am a writer
and you an actress,
and the one thing between us
is quite simply this:
The two, dear,
just don't mix

Now, a writer is one
who likes to make stories,
creates onsets and ends,
crafts his dramas from worries.
He sees the whole world
connected by string;
he knows that one simple pluck
could change everything.

Some call it 'fate,'
and it's called 'life' by a lot
but amongst us creators
it is always called Plot.
Every itch has a reason,
each whisper a whim,
within any characters past
lies a reason to win.

But the actor can only see
from their own point of view.
They must master their character;
how they think and what they'd do.
They expend all their energy
trying to be someone else
while the writer's too busy
trying to figure out himself.