I want you to teach me,
put the pencil in my hand and show me how to write.

Show me how to color the past instead of erasing it.

Teach me to love myself, In the way you love me.

Show me where I went wrong, then tell me to turn right.

Teach me smile more and cry a less.

Show me what I don't see,
Protect my eyes from what I shouldn't.

Make me laugh in the midst of my tears.

Teach me to forget why I was sad.

Show me how to conquer the pain.

Tell me what you want, and how you're gonna get it.

Show me why I should trust you,
Then,
teach me how.

Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.

Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.

Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.

We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.

Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.

We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.

And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.

pieces scattered
from Ohio to Florida
figments or fragments
who I used to be
my thoughts are scattered
my mind tries to find
parts and pieces
that were left behind

I could eat more than a thousand Ethiopians
while 500 starve
Sometimes i get a belly ache
that's the only time life is hard