The party tonight should be good
I wonder if you'll be there
No, probably not
What's this fly doing in here?
I wonder what purpose a fly serves.
Does he know he'll die in 24 hours?
I hope so.
The sound of this washing machine is rhythmic
1, 2, 3, 4,
1, 2, 3, 4,
See, dirt, no, more,
Fresh, clean, for, me
1, 2, 3, 4...
Where's the five?
A five should be here
why is there no ******* five?
Oh well, back to the poem...
1, 2, 3, 4...
Are you thinking of me?
Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
I wonder if you'll just appear under the strobe lights
So I can make your face out
Through the screen of hallucination
Tonight
1, 2, 3, 4
This fly is still here
I hope he tries jousting with the ceiling fan
1, 2, 3, 4,
My, heart, is, torn,
Walk, through, my, door,
1, 2, 3, 4
I, am, so, high,
Lo-sing, my, mind
1, 2, 3, 4...

Dream had a glass of wine with me,
Faltered through my reality,
Disrupted my slumber,
Caressed my wandering thoughts

He picked a book, old faded cover,
He turned a musty yellowish page,
Picked out a line and read,

"You, my own creator,abhor me.
What hope do I have? Shall I not
hate those who hate me? Shall I not
lash out at those who wish me ill?
You accuse me of the worst,
yet do not yourself shrink,
from inducing far greater violence on me!"

I woke up. The tale of the lonely monster lay next to me.
The pages were turned but I had turned too.
I need to love my creations. I am a creator of my own.
I can be a classic tale after all.

Today would have been a year for us.
After we parted
I asked you
if you would remember.
You had no idea what day it would be.
It never mattered to you
because every day we were together
was just as important.
It still bothered me though
because a year is a long time.
We didn't make it to here
because I had to go.
I still love you.
Happy would be one year.

I'm sorry for being a natural disaster.

I'm sorry the way my mood changes turns you into a quiet rumble of thunder, always dragging behind the lightning bolt until the full force of nature's fury is pounding down on your head.

I'm sorry for skidding into your world like a golden-tinged summer daydream and leaving it like a levee breaking.

I'm sorry for writing about you so much that your name is carved into my fingertips like water shapes a rock formation -- my journal probably wouldn't weigh so much if all my baggage wasn't crammed inside it.

I'm sorry that I can only write in figurative language lately but the concise truth is like walking barefoot on ice and after a while it's so cold it burns:

I never really loved you.

But admitting it means hailstones of lies battering my already-crumbling storm shelter, all our sunny afternoons grayed out by cloud cover.

And I'm sorry beyond all the weather metaphors in the world, but I can't bear that.

$1.54 in pocket change.
An empty wallet.
A can of travel-sized body spray.
A pen.
Some gum
And an mp3 player.
I take my silent journey at twelve-thirty,
And use my pocket change as an excuse.
I smoke a pair of cigarettes,
One there and one back.
And I buy a drink to hide the fact,
That I'm sad and confused and unable to cope.
With my daily thoughts and my loss of hope.
I **** myself a puff at a time.
And spent all but my last dime.
I hate myself more and more every day.

My heart hurts for you on nights like these.
My soul bleeds for you when you feel like this.
You've told me again and again.
"I hate being everyone's second choice."
Well you're my first.
Those brown eyes shouldn't have a single tear in them.
If I could choose from any girl in the world I'd choose you.