The jealousy of poetry
Stirs like a vengeful heart
Takes the rhyme from out the reason
Leaves behind the bitter parts

Takes a hold the dreams of old
Sends them on their way
Giving back slight glimpses
Of the thoughts you've had of late

Clinging tight to the lines that bite
In jealous fits of rage
The jealousy of poetry
Pours out on the written page

I was one drink in on Friday night
I heard the church bells 'cross the square
When the barkeep signalled next one's free
And to me, this was quite rare

There was Billy, me, two drunks and Sue
and a waitress name of Shirley
She said "that bell just rang on sixteen times"
I said "that means it's early"

the bell rang on four days one time
found a cat locked in the tower
sister mary nice as pie
thought our bell had found the power

she ran through town spouting off
how Christ has come again
when it was a 42 pound tabby cat
making out like old big ben

the pastor ran to city hall
you see he'd lost his keys
someone had to stop that noise
made by a fat cat full of fleas

fourteen rings meant two o'clock
fifteen meant half eight
eleven meant eleven and
twenty one meant you were late

it hadn't rung for fifteen years
then the new pastor came to town
I never really trusted him
he wore a smile, not a frown

i'm here to bring the church to you
i'm a pastor of the people
I laughed when I heard him say this
I wasn't going near his steeple

the church had been built catholic
turned Lutheran for a bit
United, Pentecostal too
And then the Baptist group bought it

they had a real fine choir
did great shows, and fixed the bell
it hasn't rung right since that day
Now the Baptists left as well

They run a new age service now
you know, electric candles and fake wine
confession is a long dead ghost
and you get penance points on line

they don't hold service Sunday's
the pastor, he sleeps in
they pray together through the week
and to me that is a sin

the bells go off eight times a day
sometimes nine, or even more
they keep the pigeons from the square
and shake the paint right off the door

I sit and worship faithfully
at the bar, with my drunk friends
with some cotton ***** for our poor ears
to use until the **** bell ends

i'm one drink past the last one
we've bet on how many times the bell
will ring in the next hour
you can never really tell

For now, i'll stay here drinking
with the gang here and the cat
he's deaf as any post you'll see
but he's still near twice as fat

he can't hear the bell's loud ringing
oh.....twenty three...this one's on me
maybe next time will ring sixteen more
and i'll get another beer for free.

Stepping in front of a car has never struck me as w**reckless.

My sadness is mediocre
My words are bland
The thoughts I think were thought before me, I don't understand.
I don't understand why I feel the way I do
But that's supposed to be okay because neither do you..
or you,
...or you.

I'm sorry but I don't want to be like you, though.
I don't want to be a piece of the pie.
I want to be the pan that the pie shapes itself after.
I want to be a blade, a shepherd, and an imprint in time.

My hair is curly, brown, with bronze streaks.
My mood is fairly down with sullen words my world sinks.
Her hair was dark, eyes containing broken earth and lullabies.
My love was true, the only thing not mediocre and that isn't a lie.

Let's dance on a table in a diner full of orphans, and try not to be slaves
to our loneliness.
...Do you love me?
Yes.
...Oh, okay.

Sometimes I want to die so ******* badly, it's hilarious.
I can't **** myself in case she comes back. How amazing.
I can't cut myself because I don't want to scar my flesh because if I do
it may decrease my chances of getting her back.
Even my motivation is mediocre, and my tolerance so strong it could be
mistaken as pathetic.

Put me in a silver chair from across the room she'll stare. My love will go nowhere and I swear to God we are eternal. And you and I infinite, and the world is the wind behind our feet as we run into the inaudible where the world is mute and where our love is loud, in and on my lips you trace the words you did imprint and from lightning you strike the lettered indents you did or did not meant. I cannot decide.

My mouth tastes of chocolate milk, 1993, and 1996.

Insomnia stains my eyes. I can't go to sleep because I see you.

That was so mediocre.

And it's like you expect me not to hurt;
I mean I am the perpetrator,
but that doesn't make it any
Easier

Easier would have been everything working
All the cogs aligning, workin' properly

I almost lost it on a .gif
I almost cried from viewing something that reminded me.

I made the right choice, because the cogs are aligning on my side,
they're workin' properly
But that doesn't make this grandfather clock creak any less.