The longer time flows on,
the more diluted words become.
What was "love" to our grandfathers
is now "****" to ourselves.
"**** love" is what I mean to say,
but that would be redundant.

God is dead.
That feeling you get
when you kneel by the bed -
nothing more than a wish
rolling 'round in your head.

Breaking bread.
The silly things that we do
after our prayers are said.
Idols we've chosen
to stand in his stead.

No poem of mine will ever make me famous,
     especially not the ones about
god and the president.
Maybe this is for the best;
     you've seen what fame has done to
god and the president.

So much for the destiny of man,
the potential of our youthful imaginings.
No more has it been than a carrot on a string,
a flash in the pan,
a ******* that's kept us afloat
on a sea of dreadful sleep.
And in waking, a feeling,
a dim sense of purpose laid out for us
like another warm blanket to wrap in,
to cover our eyes long enough
for that familiar vision of tragedy
to come and feed our fantasies again.

As above, so below.
In the end, where you go
all depends on who you know.

One million angels
come to carry me away.
One million angels
and still I wouldn't leave.
One million angels
who ask me not to stay.
One million angels
whose gifts I won't receive.

a loneliness surrounds her heart
her bridges twist and fall apart
green eyes cry wide beneath a sky
that's both too blue and far too high
her friends walk by without a word
to catch a glimpse of this rare bird
who only wished to leave her nest
sing all the love out from her chest
now her heart's crammed into a jar
the world looks better form afar