My bathroom reeks of cigarettes,
My sink is filled with wine,
My kitchen table, a stack of bills
And overdue book fines.
This isolation is my poison,
This quiet is my hell.
I thrive on dreams of suicide
And other habits I can't tell.
The life of an artist, you see,
Is a life of sacrifice.
And though we did not choose this fate,
We still must pay the price.
People think we simply see
Hidden beauty in the world.
But we also see the demons at night
Seducing young boys and girls.
They're tempted by money and other things
The world tries to force in our minds.
And all the artist can do is sit, watch
And hope they come out alive.
For an artist already knows how it is
To live in a world where you choke
On poison and blood and *** and wine
And in the end, they still come out broke.
Yet we still live with a foolish hope
That one day when we're dead and gone,
Perhaps our art and perhaps our words
Will somehow carry on.
We believe once we're immortal
Everything will somehow be alright.
And I plan to be there someday--
If I can make it through the night.

This morning before
I ever lifted my head,
I turned to see
Your half of the bed.
And what a harsh reminder
Of how I'm growing old
With your side of the bed
Still unbearably cold.
Your sheets are not tossed,
Your pillow unpressed--
All lovely reminders
Of my current distress.
Was it not merely a month ago
That I was curled against your skin?
We were perfect puzzle pieces,
Your shoulder to my chin.
All day long
We would curl up and sleep
With nothing like time
And business to keep.
But what a terrible disease
Lurked inside my mind.
I never thought I could be
So selfish and unkind.
If only I had known
I was capable of such sin
I never would have let
Our cursed romance begin.
I could promise to never
Let it happen again.
I could take my pills
Like I refused to then.
I could be so much better,
My darling, please see.
If only, if only
You'd come back to me.

Why is it that every time
I come in search for you,
I find you alone on the floor
Turning black and blue?
Tell me, what does he do to you
Behind these tightly closed doors?
Or why you no longer dance with me
Because your body is always sore.
You and I, my darling, were happy
Before he ever walked in.
We'd dance barefoot in the fields,
Married to the earth and wind.
But when you told me that he loved you
I believed you and set you free.
I'd always hoped you'd find someone
Much worthier than me.
But sweetheart, why so many tears?
You wear long sleeves more and more.
What happened to the lovely summer dresses
That once upon a time you wore?
And why, sweetpea, is he never home
When I come visit during the day?
And why is it always night
That you choose to run away?
Run away again tonite.
Come knocking on my door.
I will let you in; I swear
That you will hurt no more.

Such childless and clueless fools,
That it makes me fall into laughter
To think that men still search high and low
For the gold they've always been after.
And how jealous, I'm sure, they all would be
If they found that swirling in this glass
Is liquid gold that makes me one
With the writers of ages past.
Silence is golden, or so they say,
But this gold I own births words.
For one thin river down my throat
Flow out words that have never been heard.
Still the voices in my head warn of addiction.
But perhaps their thirst is great as mine.
Is not that how i started drinking gold?
I could no longer quench them with wine.
I am always alone, so it seems
So nobody sits in my path
Of things I could potentially hurt
If I have more than one glass.
So I will continue with liquid gold,
Feeding my paper with words,
Until my eyes are filled with tears
And my poems turn into lines blurred.

The desire to be an artist,
To be a poet, to be immortal.
Knowing there's a land of words
If I can only reach the portal.
Drown in ****** and Wine
In a tub filled to the brim,
Letting France run down my throat,
Letting France run down my chin.
Words lay at the bottom
Of every bottle (or so they say)
Convincing us it's worth the *****
And the headache the next day.
Kiss goodbye the sound mind,
And enter insanity.
Welcome to the world of arts
With streets of vanity.
There stands Shakespeare on the balcony;
Kurt Cobain sits in the corner.
This place you are one
Where anywhere else you are a foreigner.
Here there is no day.
Here there is only night.
Here you sit making art
By the candle light.
But here there is no laughter,
For an artists knows no joy.
Instead here lies the dreams
Of all the dead girls and boys.
And here there is no rest,
For an artist knows no peace.
Here is the land of artists.
Is it everything you dreamed?

You are the only one
Who knows the secrets of my youth.
You were the only one
Who I could tell the truth.
You know all my shame
But this isn't love.
You are the only one
Who can touch me in that way.
You were the only one
Who I did not push away.
You know his name
But this isn't love.
You are the only one
Who can kiss me in the rain.
You were the only one
Whose kiss did not cause pain.
You know I was framed
But this isn't love.
You are the only one
Who can hold me in bed.
You were the only one
Whose touch I did not dread.
You know who's to blame
But this isn't love.
You are the only one
Who seems to understand.
You were the only one
Who could ever hold my hand.
You know what he claimed
But this isn't love.
You are the only one
Who came close to "together".
You were the only one
Who I could see forever.
You felt the same
But it wasn't love.