It's funny how
lack of sleep will hit you.
It's six in the morning,
and I,
I'll tear up at almost anything now.
All sense of sanity
hindered by delirium
but I think of you.
Maybe I'm insane,
maybe I'm delusional,
but at six in the morning,
I still love you.

I've been awake
since five A.M.
I went to bed
at three.
And I can't decide,
if I want her,
or a bottle of whiskey.

I sit alone at night
with tears held in my eyes.
I sit alone at night
and hope that I may die.

I know, that it's no good
I'll get nowhere at all.
But without my Shady Grove
I'm broken and I'm small.

Shady Grove's, my little love
Shady Grove I say.
Shady Grove's, my little love
I'm bound to go away.

I wish I had a golden pen
that could write all my lines.
I wish I had a golden pen
then Shady Grove'd be mine.

Cherry's in the summer time
apples in the fall.
If I can't have the girl I love
I won't have none at all.

Shady Grove's my little love
Shady Grove my friend.
Shady Grove's my little love
I'm leaving in the end.

I'll always have the vague desire,
that someone will catch my work
and help it really get somewhere.
Then I remember,
I write drunk
and ****** up
at three in the morning.
"Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning"
right?
I'll just be content,
with writing for the drunks,
and the drug addicts,
and the sleepless.
I try to tell myself maybe,
that's who really needs it anyway.

I know,
I know there lies no answer
in the bottom of this glass.
On occasion though,
it certainly kills the question.
And yes I know,
this glass holds no peace,
but it certainly makes telling yourself,
you've found as much
a little easier.
And yes,
yes I know.
The glass holds little more than a slight reprieve
from self loathing,
from guilt,
from the colossal weight upon my shoulders.
But it seems you,
and hope,
are always gone.
And the glass is always here.

To watch a man,
attempt the washing of blood
long since spilled,
upon his hands.
Is to watch an agony I cannot describe.
How do you see yourself
when in the mirror,
there is a monster?
When in the shine of your children's eyes,
you see only reflected
a murderer?
Where do you find joy,
in life?
When you wish perhaps,
you'd been not so "lucky."

I was once asked
"where is home,
if not your house?"
My heart wanted to say
"wherever there is love,
and trust, brother."
My brain urged otherwise,
and so my response was only
"wherever you lay your head,
that night"