Hey, I don’t know your name, but I see you in the hallway.
And when I see you smiling, it kind of makes my day.

You dress really nice,
Especially compared to the other guys.

I like your glasses and the way you do your hair.
You don’t have to talk to me if you've got someone-
Or maybe you don’t care…

Just know this took me a lot of guts, because I’m really shy.
I never really took a chance or ever really tried …

So now it’s up to you, I guess, as to what you want to do-
I understand if you think this is weird, I honestly can’t blame you.

It’s just, if I don’t put myself out there, I guess I’ll always wonder
About why I hadn't done a thing like this back when I was younger.

Funny, how in this
Tomb of a room,
Thoughts bloom
And threaten to consume me.

we smoked our cigarettes
and belted out car duets

never listened to any advice
figured trial and error would suffice

we ate past when we were full
and felt life's strange alluring pull

but we learned it was never enough
to sit back and relax and love

you can't repeat the past, Gatsby
I wish someone would have told me

At some point                                                            ­                             I miss him.
along the line                                                             ­                      I haven't slept.
my thoughts changed.                               I can't remember how to be happy.
As nothing progressed                                        I can't escape from my head.
and I began                                        My nights belong to the nightmares.
to feel at home here                                                           I haven't slept.
the stillness                                                        ­                                   I miss him.
trickled into my head.                                                                        He's dead.
It's such a little change                                       I can't stop looking for him.
but now                                               I don't know how to deal with this.
the landscape is colored                                 I don't enjoy being alive.
with unfulfilled waiting,                                                                         He's dead.
unmet expectations                                                                          I'm not dead.
excuses.                                                                                        I still miss him.
The sharp brightness                                                         I still haven't slept.
of the initial pain                         I still can't remember how to be happy.
(and I had never felt so alive)          I still can't escape from my head.
fades to dull colors.      My nights still belong to the nightmares.
My eyes don't burn                                   I still haven't slept.
anymore.                                                 ­  I still miss him.
Maybe I don't have to run.                He's still dead.
I can just embrace this;          I still can't stop looking for him.
this stillness          I still don't know how to deal with this.
stop expecting             I still don't enjoy being alive.
stop waiting.                           He's still dead.
And in that case...I'm still not dead.
                  *Why not?

Vacant stares consume her eyes; she’s empty behind them due to lies.
The lies she’s told about where she’s laid, she calls it her profession because she gets paid.
Because when money’s short her skirt does the same, she calls it ‘a minor bump on the road to fame’.
And she’s recently disgraced the family name, are you surprised to know her fathers to blame?

He abused her first and now she’s ashamed so she lives amongst felons and girls without names.
Instead of respect they respond to ‘*****’, and for a little lose change they’ll satisfy your itch.
Until one day a man didn’t have change, only a bullet in the chamber and a mind without a cage.
So with that single bullet he turned her page, finished her book and didn’t feel any rage.

Because of that bullet she didn’t reach fame, no money in the bank, or lights around her name.
She died in the dark, writhing in pain, tears mixed with raindrops, her father to blame.

And everyone dis-missed her as crazy, so no one held flowers the day she pushed daises.

You never loved me
You only pretended to
You only thought you did
Or
If you did love me, at one point
You don't anymore
Why would you
I'm no longer that naive,
Innocent
Happy girl.
I'm broken and lonely
& since you are too
Why would you want me to love you.

Words convey so little,
like the beauty in your eyes,
or the ways which I am fickle,
the way you change your voice,
when you ask a question,
or how I hate the way I've been a yes man,
Things,
simply just fall apart,
but you know,
that I know,
that you've got a good heart.
It's just been toyed with,
by everyone,
not just him,
we're all under the gun,
I just convert it to hymns.
If people were stories,
made up of text,
I would be a dirge,
the end,
nothing else left,
simplified for those,
who care not for it,
saddening prose,
which causes lament.
That was the way,
that I felt in the heat,
and I met an artist,
who overlapped with her sweeps.
Over time we bonded,
shared joy,
and misery,
but to you,
without your knowledge,
I've remained a mystery.
It wasn't on purpose,
I was simply too scared,
of someone like me,
someone so rare.
But every time,
I've been on the brink,
you come back to me,
and I don't have to think.
Being alone with my thoughts,
was something to dread,
to dwell on the things,
inside of my head,
but maybe now,
it isn't so bad,
where happiness flowers,
creation is to be had.
Of that artist,
I am always in debt,
but in a brief instant,
she saw and she fled.
Days went by,
and I simply gave up,
the notion she'd return,
so I live in a truck.
The lessons I'd felt,
were worth so much more,
than the in-taken substance,
or a night on Doug’s floor.
A fictional letter,
came drifting by,
the name was now foreign,
yet still caught my eye,
and it was then I realized,
a canvas is I.
And therefore,
what if people were art?
We are things of beauty,
that can be torn apart.
And the artist itself?
A combination of their works,
the intrinsic sustains,
as the extrinsic smirks,
creators as we,
see every flaw in the plan,
we demand perfection,
or as close as we can.
While work will be done,
with meticulous ease,
our time alone,
can sting us like bees.
I could make metaphors,
for months upon years,
but my learned nature,
makes me imagined deaf ears.
When the artist came,
my craft was the best of my life,
nothing was framed,
and no bliss led to strife.

My head’s in my hands
As I cry out for you
I really wonder this time
If I will make it through

Broken and cold,
Sad and made of stone
My heart is still with you
Even though I’m alone

Begging to escape
From deep inside of me
Is the broken little child
That you are about to set free

If I let that child out
Who knows what it will do
It’s been caged for so long
Its brain is all askew

This child of mine
Isn’t like most
It’s not carefree
Its spirit is very morose




This child of mine is shackled
Yearning to break loose
To wreak havoc on my life
And try to reverse the abuse

So say I let it out
How will it stop it
From releasing years of emotions
That before, I could never admit?

Well out comes this child of mine
It’s finally free
Just make sure you help
To save me from me.