A dusty solitary moth darting through his darkest night
  Finds himself attracted, helpless, to the candlelight.
He's lured to the burning flame.
He resents it all the same
And whips his wings to extinguish it in a futile fiery game.
He gets so close he starts to burn.
My name is Moth.
I never learn.

I would like to have a transparent head..
I would rather possess a cellophane brain
  Then you could easily read my mind
   As my thoughts go down the drain.
I believed I had a shatter-proof heart:
Tempered, layered, and double-thick.
The glass fell out when the frame came apart.
Love impacts like a fast-pitch brick.

Here we are on the bleak edge of town
Where even despondency feels disappointing,
Where the lowest go to get let down
In the manic-depressive cafe.
Each of us sips from a broken dream
Brimful of emptied expectation.
We take it cold.
...with curdled cream.
We drink it hopeless grey;
Grey as the cloud looming over tomorrow
Sour as all of us come here today
Nibbling last night's helping of sorrow
And picking at yesterday's pain.
Window seats never admit any sun...
We stare at constantly overcast lives
And sitting around us it seems everyone
Has eyes that are going to rain.
There are desperately anguished storms in each face
Building to breaking point soon to burst
Our emotional levees and flood this place
When we lose our grip on sane.