The faces don't match the voices.
The voices don't sound right,
and a sunny day such as this one
doesn't just suddenly turn to night.

I think I might be dreaming, I whisper to myself,
who then nods in agreement
and points to the way out.

The scents don't match the scenery.
The scenes aren't adding up,
and politely asking the gasping walls doesn't make them stop.

"I'm trying to find my way out of here," I say to my own face,
who echoes back the question
after a short delay.

I point to the space behind him,
then he points at my head.
I think I might be dreaming,
or else I might be dead.

I see myself as I was before
walking in through the Exit door;
confused and lost and in need of help.
I calmly point him to the way out.

It doesn't make any sense though,
and it's the farthest thing from fair.
*Walls don't even have lungs,
so how can they breathe air?

The city screamed from far away, carnivorous call,
As those neon lights illuminated nothing at all,
I saw my whole life written on a face with no name,
30 minutes, 30 years; it still feels the same,
On a subway platform, I wore the streets as a cloak,
With murderous indifference, nobody spoke,
Adrift in the hum and shuffle, I circle empty squares,
Swimming in electric fire and unoccupied stares,
As moonlight cut the misty haze, scratching my eye,
I found myself the beginning of another goodbye,
Standing tall among the skyscrapers, drowning in shade,
An encore performance of a mess that I made,
And on the ride home, an old man played the Rising Sun,
Reminding me of the only thing I still can’t outrun.

Morning afters are always
Idyllic; breezy, balmy, slow.
Blue sky highways
White clouds completing the tableau.

Morning afters are quiet
Sleepy cuddles and kisses
While butterflies riot
Deep in your insides.

Morning afters are filled
Full up; a carnival mix bag of treats
Feelings of contentment and thrill
Yet somehow full of deceit.

Morning afters are never
What they seem
Peel past the bucolic exterior
And it's merely a vanishing dream.

Every time your eyes told me
this was going to get better,
I strangled every nerve,
pushed them out of my skin.

And every time you told me to move on,
I broke my own bones,
but it was you
who I wanted to be hurt by it,
it was you I wanted to break.

Please tell me at least once I did.

Lost in the faint, unsettled dust of wonder,
We become the chains that pull us under,
The architects of empty wishing wells,
Or the ghosts that haunt these cheap motels,
And as hope crumbled into ash and rust,
I was left with nobody but myself to trust,
Just the paranoia upon which we all depend,
And the sad songs where we met our end,
Still my heart kept dancing in unsteady code,
As I buried my pride by the side of the road,
Singing black sheep, bedroom, bells of war,
I still remember where you keep the floor,
And as their laughter fell apart like rain,
I was left with nobody but myself to blame,
Just the empty promises that we all pretend,
And the silence where we’ll meet our end.

In Brussels the announcement came
to add to their everlasting pain.
Sunday's "March against Fear" has been Postponed
and folks have been told to stay at home.
The reason for this I just learned;
they cancelled due to security concerns.

solitude, the only trait which we exude
together in our lonesomeness upon the same big rock
we thrash against it, more or less, the ticking of the clock
oh the folly! all the waste, the hurt, the love, absurdity
it's all we have in haste to make our very own profundity
before the closing of the coffin, burning of our ashes
how i'd prefer to serve my time: adorned with camera flashes
embalmed and set upon a rock, for all my fellow ones to see
and squirm in squeamish joy at all my peeled back dignity
solitude, the only proper attitude
with which we can approach the senseless nature of existence
a mind, a hole in timespace, fleetingly fought resistence
against that voiding encroach, the darkness of persistence
one day i'll greet it as a friend and hope it's in good mood
and meet with all my theories, my end, my solitude