Part of me doesn’t want to write anymore (or is it anything?).
Am I just afraid to drag my emotions across this page?
My words tend to come back black and blue,
misunderstood from the most ridiculous points of view.

Should I end communications?
Though the shadows in my closet offer no verbal retaliations.
For better or worse, at least my ego’s not hurt
from a mad world’s projections.

But I don’t want to be the lonely one
hiding along the edge of the room,
surely looking broken to some,
while others wait for me to come undone.

Give me a minute and I’ll return to center ring.
Maybe it’s just the thought of a crowd that I find overwhelming.

I feel like running into the arms of warm grave,
if it weren't for all these people I supposedly saved.
Now looking at me with their accusatory stares,
looks of "How dare you emotionally sway,
from the hopes and words that convinced us to stay!"

What if you find that I'm wrong;
that these are not real songs,
and that I don't belong?
I'm sorry.
Compared to other heroes, I'm not nearly as strong.

Run, rat, run.
Though you don’t know where to
or what from.

Live, love,
fly, die.
A cyclical life we all live by.

Disorientedly
caught in the streams
of others’ hopes and dreams.

Wears me down, this gathering of men.

With their idle chatter, presenting the most annoying clatter,

to the ever growing backdrop of this living.


My mouth can't mask the feverish rantings of my mind.

I should let this conversation die. Let it end!

Let it flutter desperately in the wind.


Slink itself back, in the awkward way it came.

I'll bound back into the sea of faces.

Lost in my murky fog of vanity, I'll swallow the blame.

She's a dime a dozen runaway.

Educated by the light of day.

But forget about stories of the fast lane,

She’d rather reach for a strong hand.



She met her baby on South Ave.

He was just as blown away to(o,)

be noticed by the county beauty queen

of corn or cows or something ordinary.



Local five and dime's no place to hide,

if she wants to shine this ‘little light of mine’.

Above on a hill, her silhouette sits by a street light.

Hands nervous and gripping tight,



Bags are packed, fake smiles attached,

the beauty of the world, seems all but detached.

I think to myself ‘I could use a bit of company,’

So, “Hey, honey, wanna share a ride with me?”

Maybe there is no me?
Maybe me is just we?
Oversimplified, over-exemplified,
Positioned so that I can't see.

There's a girl I know.
And if ever there was an empathic soul,
she'd be in the running for the gold.
This girl I know.