Doesn't it make sense to drop your body into a steaming tub
Surrounded by a thousand flickering flames
Nestling yourself down into an infinite amount of bubbles
It seems so simple and easy
Like creativity as a child
Where did my sense of art go?
I can see it everywhere but in my own head
It's like leaning toward the middle of the back seat to watch the bugs
On the front window battle the mist that grows fiercer
Pretending there are cameras from every angle as water rolls steadily down the window to your side
Humming a tune that you think you made up
Because you can't remember where you've heard it before
And now tears full of salt destroy the soap that has encompassed your whole body
The art you so carefully dreamt of isn't really yours but you'll say it is anyway
Because it makes you feel good
It gives you a sense of power
Some sort of control
Because Lord knows you're really just drowning in the rain
Like those bugs on the windshield
That didn't have a chance anyway

Sharp edge of a coldfront
stands west of Dells,
a rigid lead line on a ridge
where the leanin' broke-roof barn
stands ready to take in buckets.

Ain't been scavenged
for old wood yet,
for picture frames,
sold,
where the upwardly mobile,
shop for the quaint, rustic things,
reshaped for authenticity,
and a clipped last year
wall calendar
image of a red barn
in a yellow field,
below a blue
cloudless sky,
following
the perfect rule
of thirds.

For a long time,
Holding on to wicked love
A cold heart
A place I called home
Shattered and broken down
I have no where to go
Wandering in this ghost town
Looking for a place called home