There is no one out there
for you, for me, for anyone.
There are just people taking
life one tincture at a time. I know
this just as I know that cigarettes
will just make you cough, and just
as surely, you will smoke them
until your voice sings out of
tune anyway.
There are no great cameras,
no screenplay writers, to lap
you up and kiss you until dawn.
Instead, you bitterly spit through
half-smiles and half mean them too,
and only half the time are they lovely.
But you've been told otherwise,
huh? Red lips, red wine and red meat
is dream that's sold to the dreaming,
in life it leads only to red stains.
Sometimes they don't come out and
you'll cry, sometimes they're a piece of
the evening you'll welcome to your
messy wardrobe of messy clothes.
Let's just call it what it is and know
that without those words
we are just bags of
skin and bone that watch the stars as
chemicals fight in our heads.
And that isn't always perfect,
because it's not written that way,
this way, your way, my way or
really, anyway
at all