There are ghosts in the machine
That they aptly labeled "me"
Lines of code that know
What the wind does
When it doesnt blow

Were they placed there to find
Or escape only to hide
And if I give chase
Can I be content
That they'd only erase

There are ghosts in the shell
Hiding in the spaces between each cell
As they permeate my gears
They assail my mind with the thought
"There are no ghosts in here"

The age of men and women
Taking grand heroic action
Or making small significant gestures
Which changed the world
Are over.
Enter the age of indifference
Failing economics
And aging alcoholics
Dot the skyline
Of forclosures
And reposessions
Where once stood
Raised Fists

We ignored the warnings
The unemployment rate
Rises faster than global warming
Al Gore is an adulterer
Another inconvenient truth
Lining the landscape of sephulchre

Failing motivation
Spreads like an infectuous disease
And e-mails to God go unanswered
Replaced by homicidal tendency
The philosophers and writers
Visionaries and fighters
Have all been diagnosed with
Social disorder
And put on lithium
The public would rather watch
The latest news on the off-shore drilling Moratorium
Its just getting boring.

The smallest voice has ceased to be listened
So instead of pulling out my hair
I resign to not care
And stopped acting like it makes a difference.

Stitches hold together rotting Skin.
Buried secrets Deep in me,
Struggle to remain Within.
You sent for me to Stand right by your Side.
I arrived the Night that you
Gave away your Life, Again.

You'd said,
If you Love me let me Go.
I said,
Run away Before I know.
Somewhere that I can never Find,
Run and Leave me far Behind.
As I Give in Into my Fear,
I Reach for You, you Disappear.
And I Thought that I could Save You.
My soul was Banished to the Dark,
Lost to necromantic Art.

I still Keep your Letters penned in Ink,
Secrets Whispered privately,
And Sealed with your Kiss.
Your Words keep you Alive Inside my mind.
Until I have you Here again,
I wont give up the Fight.
So London, run and Save yourselves.
Down here this Madman's raising Hell.
But this is All for Love.
I only hope that its Enough.

I'll take the Living and the Dead,
and you'll be with me In The End.
Tell me God what is the Price?
for Sacrifice to Save a Life

So Save your Breath, I will not Hear.
I think by Now its very Clear.
to Hell with Right and Wrong,
I'm the One thats playing God.
and I wont Listen to your Pain,
or Give in without my Way.
and for Now we may be Apart;
Until you come back from the dark
And the Blood flows through your Heart.

Bring out your Dead.
Bring out your Dead.
Bring out your Dead...

... I need the parts.

I dont mean to be indifferent.
Its just that I dont care.
Not anymore anyway.
I couldnt care less

About your problems
Issues you have with your dad
Or other such demonstrations of
Your selfishness.

I dont want to talk about the weather
I'd rather just play with my food.
Maybe we can have *** in a while
That is, if I'm still in the mood.

So go ahead and talk through your martini.
Talk through me.
As if I'm really listening.
It would be rude to interrupt.

Today,
I washed my sneakers
With a Mr. Clean
Magic Eraser.

With it,
I erased the evidence
Of where my treads
Had led me.

Mud cleared from
Inbetween the grains
On the soles of my shoes,
I feel lighter.

With a blank canvas
On which
To write tomorrow's story,
Tonight I spraypaint my sneakers black.

Magic Erasers Are ******* Expensive.

Its hard to concentrate
When your thoughts rattle around
Like machinegun fire
Caught in complicated clockwork
Trying to captivate
One cognitive idea
About Life
Conglomerate

While the tapestries
Of cliches attempt
To coalesce as they
Cascade
Only to fall away
As they dribble out my ears
The critics are unimpressed.

There is no one on this earth
Who is still interested
In simple lyrics backed by
Overwhelming overtures
When the focus is on expenditures
And the bottom line wont budge

Its as if it holds a grudge
Torturing visionary artists
Hiding in their closets
From monsters under the bed
And detained by superego authorities
While alone and afraid
Locked in Negative Headspace

But the artists becon of light
Is an ironic twist of common life
In a pedestrian plight
Captured on 8mm film
And put on Lifetime.

How do you write a song when
The melody is wrong
But the lyrics flow from the hand
Like the last latent ramblings
Of a dying, possessed man
Onto the page as
The imaginary lines fade
And the surreal becomes real

And in your head its something you can hear

In your gut, its something you can feel

But the fingers on the guitar
Cant catch these falling stars
And before we go to far
Its time to take a step back
To breathe

The guitar bleeds
But its blood isnt music
And if you turn away you lose it
As the sound gets trapped behind
The saturated limitations of the mind
The brass threads slowly unwind
Only to stab you in the neck.

And still,
The critics are unimpressed.