Why am I still doing this?
The road no longer offers
What I had hoped it would offer.
I ran out of my money weeks ago,
And the only money these gigs offer
Are just enough to get me
To my next gig.
Every morning I wake up inside my car,
Frost on my windshield and hair,
Not sure where I'm going next,
But not ready to go home.
I smoke some stranger's
Thrown away half cigarette for breakfast ,
And put all of my trust
In Paul Simon and Adam Duritz
To get me to my next stop alive.
I haven't written a new song in months,
And all the ones I keep playing
Have grown old and stale--
Maria being the only song I can still sing
With passion.
Yet I keep doing it,
My todays following my yesterdays,
Each day a shadow of the last.
I found an old Carole King CD
Underneath my passengers seat,
And I let it remind me that someone
Is still riding next to me.
Reno sounds nice.
I might go there next.
I pop in the CD,
Hoping to find some comfort,
But all I hear is Carole's voice
Reminding me of everyone
Who is still so far away.

I pity these dead moths
And their foolish minds.
They lie in rest
Under the very same street light
That they died for.
I can not help but to think
That if only these moths
Could aquire some wisdom,
They could learn to desire the light
The same way I desire you:
Knowing that the second I touch
I get burned,
Yet remaining as close as possible,
So that I may experience
The beauty
Of your warmth and radiance
Without ever truly touching.

Beads of sweat ,
Breath down necks,
And the prayer
That this is destiny
For more than a few minutes.
Perhaps at least two of us
Will outlive our teenage lust
And find out what it means to love.
The rest of us
Will all stay stuck
And marry some pretty face
Belonging to a person
We will never know.

I wake up
To the mist of his breath
On the back of my neck,
The smell of alcohol still lingering.
I roll away
From the grip of his arm
And sit up in the bed.
I might be the only one awake,
Which gives me a good chance to leave
Before I have to make an effort.
I step out of bed
And head for the door.
But as I walk away,
I look back at him once more.
He was a nice guy,
Wasn't pushy
Or aggressive.
He might even be worth
Trying to make something work.
A tingling hint of guilt
Dances in my stomach,
Then flees just as quickly
As I see him sleeping so peacefully.
Sure,
He was a nice guy.
But for once,
It will be nice
To be the one who leaves
And not the one
Who gets left in bed.

I spent last night
With a homeless man.
He asked to *** a cigarette,
And next thing you know,
Hours passed
Just sitting on a New York bench,
And talking about life.
He told me about his dream
To be an astronaut,
And how he would give anything
To tell his mother he was sorry.
At one point,
He put his hand on my chest
And felt my heart beating
For a few seconds.
He looked into my eyes
And asked me why I was so sad.
No reason.
I'm not sad.
It's just cold,
And I was just thinking
That August never sticks around
As long as I'd like.