My heads like a magazine
Skimming through all the pages like "What's all the fuss."
And making up the rest of it
I guess that's part of the buzz
Like a silly love song about something that never was
That's what my mind does
But it's never ambitious enough to fall on love

Art is not made for you
Art is not made for thyself
Art is made within itself
That's real passion

I wish that I was art.

Should just leave you alone
All I'll ever be is a change in tone
I think I could love again
But the doubts already been reflected in my lens

People are probably more right about me than I've never been
I thought my past was supposed to tell me what I want for my future
But that accident was more than a fender bend

I try to take all the bad with the good
I figure if things happen, that's how they should
But when everything's going okay
Where's the success in that without having to pay
Everything that was ever great becomes transparent
And you lose sight of something that was so opaque

And with the lack of imagery
How will we find symmetry
Your side is perfectly alined
And mine is all white washed from the pine
Don't tell me you're fine
Without me your personality subsides
A man is nothing but his confidence
But you're too caught up in your pompous dance

I have a friend
who is in a state of
constant action.
Whether it is
talking
or walking
or kissing
or smoking,
she is doing.

I never understood why,
never understood how she could
always be bored
when things slowed down,
never understood why
silence wasn't peaceful to her,
until now.

When there are demons in your head
that whisper into the empty spaces,
you look for other sounds to drown them out;
you look for something
-anything, really-
that gives you something to think about
other than the aching in your chest.

But soon it becomes less of a habit
and more of a necessity.
You start getting desperate,
calling friends at 2am,
sneaking out to walk to the park
because at least you're not
trapped in your ******* room,
and with desperation comes regret.

You start doing things you're not proud of
but at least the demons were quiet
while you were doing it
so you do more to
forget about that regret
and so on.

And it works for a while.
But the demons will creep back in,
hiding between teeth
and in ash
and under beds,
until eventually
there is no where left
for you to run.

You're running around with your head cut off
And your circus personality
Your face is ****** and sad, with those dark rings around your eyes, and all the years you've seen have made you plain curmudgeony
Your silt pockets run dry to the earth, their face is laced with ******* and dirt
Your mace head is running wiry with hair, and you wouldn't be surprised if you found a rats nest in there
You've been casted a role, that you forgot how to play, from all the years of half-assed hearsay
You said you'd give me your word, and chilled with guilt, you fiddled and farted away

What is light? If I turn it on, you will see
If I turn it off how am I sure if I cease to be?
It's within this arc that time bleeds
The only time that we can be in two places at once, at vastly different times
Where the resonance of stars still chime

You said time travel was impossible
And I told you, "Maybe not for you, no."

If science is what works
Then why do you trust those casino clerks
With their robotic arms and all of their clockwork
How elusive a round clock that makes you think you can start over
In a time where people feed you their linear lies, but you forget when you're sober
Yes the clock sounds in circles, but darling you're getting older

If science is what works then why do you try and paint with water
You've got a beautiful canvas, but you're as unstable as a teeter-totter
The shower head will spin and spin and as amphibious as you feel you may never grow fins
Where you will find yourself on the bathroom floor, made a mess of wine and gin.
If science is what works, then why do you binge?

If science is what works then where do you find yourself in between my pen and my paper
When I struggle to smith words out of granite and slavework
Where imagination paints pictures in more colors then my lead
When I don't know if you're the one guiding my hand or if it's all in my head
Maybe you're a projection, and maybe in my writing I have found a self objection
But if science is what works, then why could you never decipher my sincere affection?
Why do you get along better with those robotic clerks
You and I must be more complex than clockwork
You and I must be more intricate than my own art work