I've got a little black book with my poems in
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of **** on the T.V. to choose from
I've got electric light
And I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home
I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And I've got the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt
I've got nicotine stains on my fingers
I've got a silver spoon on a chain
I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains
I've got wild staring eyes
I've got a strong urge to fly
But I've got nowhere to fly to
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home
I've got a pair of Gohills boots
And I've got fading roots.

I called out to you in the dead of night.
My eager heart plummeting
at the occasional creaking sound that came
from within our old battered down house.
Every sigh and moan,
an echo of the anguish the old house had once endured.
I understood the house’s pain and it accepted mine
The way a mother accepts her young.
The house was dying,
and so was I.
We both knew it
but still We cried out for you,
together,
one last time.
Frightened and forlorn as we were.
Like the last rose of winter,
holding on to its withering petals,
too afraid to let go,
But far too weak to hold on.
I sprawled out across the kitchen floor.
My punctured heart spilling out,
through the cracks between each slab
of generically stained linoleum
The house held me
"Close your eyes, "
it whispered.
I held them open
for as long as I could
I grit my teeth
and whispered back
"I’m sorry"

You can't let your parents love or the broken love that you've seen all around the world define what you are going to love like or what your love is going to be like or what love is going to do to you; you just let yourself be guided by it.

That's the thing about a callused heart.
It still beats,
bleeds
And loves
the way any other heart does.
Its a matter of feeling those things that becomes difficult.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

There is no high like that of the epiphany. The only reason drugs and alcohol were ever decent was because they seemed to spark these glorious moments of clarity and realization, and even if it was only the illusion of a life changing thought, at least it was experienced. Hell sometimes they were even valid. But just like every other high, there was a come down. And the most terrible come down of all was knowing that whatever life altering wisdom you came to know, whatever deeper look into the human condition you now seemed to understand, the next morning you would wake up and everybody was just as much of a ******* as they were the day before and nothing changed and the high wore off and it was just another ******* let down.

She looked at me
With a tenderness that I had never known
And in that moment
I was free