I have never been good at hiding my anything
under more than a thin layer of trying
to hold back the parts of me not everyone should see
I am not afraid of who I am or how I feel and I don't think they should be either
but I'm sorry if my sandpaper tongue and teary eyes are too much
I'm sorry for the mistakes I have made and the ones I will surely make
because I'm not very good at knowing everything or censoring my sensitivity
I'd like to think that I was good to him and I'll be good to this one too
I'd like to think I didn't make a mess I couldn't clean up because I'm a little bit OCD
And I don't like admitting that I'm afraid if things out of my control
I don't believe in perfection but I like the bright days and I don't want to be the kind of person
that breaks hearts and makes happiness hard
because I like whole, happy hearts
and I still love him
in the hardest way
the way that makes me want his life to not be a part of mine
because I would just like
some peace of mind

I remember a story, it starts at fourteen.
I had a crooked back and low self esteem.
I was afraid I was gonna end up in a ditch somewhere.

I had to devise myself a plan
of which direction to go if **** hit the fan
and I knew my mother wanted a prodigy child

So I figured I could sing or get really smart,
but my voice would crack and my mind was dark,
so I decided, in this crazy world,
that I could rob graves.

So I left home when I was sixteen
my boredom peaked and my senses keened
I grew with a morbid fascination with the dead

It started out
me figuring that
they wouldn’t miss their dimes, their shoes or their hats
I tramped on the dusty trail with an evil eye

As I ended up along the borderline
I met another young man who had gone insane.
He just got back from the war.
Like he said: “I’ve seen some things.”

So we rode together for quite a while
in the dust on the trail for a thousand miles
until one night, we came upon an unmarked grave.

My partner fumbled around in his pockets
evading worms and maggots from his sockets.
He turned around and looked at me with his crazy smile

It turned out what he found was a letter
and with this smile he said: “The dead have it better.”
So i reached out to grab it while the stench arose.

He handed it to me and on front and back
I read about this lonely, old, sad sack
who, being sick of life, ended up hanging himself.

This really put things into perspective for me
for the attention me and my partner was giving, you see,
was often more than these people received in life.

But one windy day the law caught on our path
and with a holstered gun me and my partner had
we stopped by a local tavern to wet our throats.

The law had converged in the front door
my partner flinched before I could do more.
And before I knew it he had bolted down for the gun.

Before I could say another word
he dropped to the floor and his fingers curled.
He rattled and faded away while I was restrained.

As I was lying on my stomach on the ground
I looked over and I heard a sound
It was my partner whispering his final words.

“The dead have it better.”

The moment you let go of the pain
You forget about her the hurt is all that remains
Im usually emotionally unavailable but im tired of being closed in
I do it to myself I pull the plug on everything
Im over starting over ive gone so far
My favorite part of the day is when my favorite song plans on the radio
Driving fast wind in my face
Blowing away my frustrations thats the time im free
I feel like me when I work up confidence to be witty
Meet new people grow as a person
Tempted to get a number make a night happen
Get away see what happens

My interests
began to fail
me as my
darkness
moved in for
the ****.

I blamed it
all on the
crescent Moon.
The bad
head case
of the
blues I
had been
Harboring
all dam year.

Then settled
on the fact
that it was
just another
washed out
wednesday
night.

Frusciante
once again
amazed
me as he
summoned the
Gods with
his guitar
and
sang to me
through
the magic
of the
radio.

My curiosity
began to
return as
the
comical
thoughts of
suicide
took to
their roost
inside
my head.

There they
always
await like
vultures atop
a San Pedro Cactus.

Patiently waiting
for the
next time
my mind
goes weak.

No Good Ever Came...


No good ever came
From staying up all night

Except when it took all night
To satisfy our thoughts

No good ever came
After the eight pint

Except when we drank too much
And finally said the words

No good ever came
From sleeping for hours all fine

Except in those morning hours
When we were safe from the whole world

No good ever came
From staying sober and bright

Except for the days we remember
When everything was sharp and whole

No good ever came
From standing completely still

Except when we stared at each other
And knew just who we were

No good ever came
From filling up on pills

Except when we hung from the ceiling
And clung to the clouds in mirth

No good ever came
From chasing childish thrills

Until we found that place inside
And laughed at how simple it was

No good ever came
From using power of will

Except when we clung together
Much longer than we should

No good ever came
From constantly pretending

Except when we said it would be fine
And sort of lived our lives

No good ever came
From the act of surrendering

Except when we surrendered
To the currents in our hearts

No good ever came
From being real and raw

Except when we absolved ourselves
By accepting all our scars

No good ever came
From fighting in a war

Except when we fought each other
Instead of face ourselves

Nothing ever good came
From shedding all those tears

Except when it let you know
That I was full of fear

Nothing ever came from me or you or us
Except for the briefest moments

When good came from both our lives.