I lost my innocence
Beside railroad tracks
And learned my love
Of - why? - when I
Watched the train go by.

My pap saw ghosts
The night he died.
I stood in his old boots
One year later, and learned
A subtle love of power
With fire, fire, *fire

Sometimes I find myself lost
Hush, my love, hush
In the thoughts of others and
It isn't long now
I find I fall in love with 4 AM
For soon the birdies wake
Whose silent voice does speak
And the moon must partake
And sing the gentle songs of sleep
*In his final, lonely bow

The idle ghosts of innocence
Dance sweetly in a silhouette of sun;
Teasing tiny palms, they shimmer
As tempting gold specs of treasure,
And as he plants these small seeds
I sometimes sense Time seethe --
*Fickle is man if he cannot see,
Of remembrance, dust is currency!

I speak to the mountains,
SOFTLY
I tell them of my troubles,
They seem to be blown away
In to the clouds,
I do from time to time
Shouts words, from up high,
Bellow them out loud,
In to the mountains
And away in to the sky,
The one I love to come
Back is the sound of
The mountains speak,
I shout with all my might
I LOVE YOU
Because they never judge,
They listen to what I say in
Happiness,
Sadness,
Joy,
And laugh,
And the echo comes full swing
**WE LOVE YOU RIGHT BACK..

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
Cross legged I sit
Swallowing stables to repair my inner self

Am I to be martyred?

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I'm in a panic, my heart's edging its final fit
Cross legged I sit
With a scissors I cut off my rough edges

Am I to be martyred?

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
In my head I feel this is it
Using a ruler to guide my knife
Blood falls like a liquid hour glass ending my life

I can't be who I have to be
My aspirations far outweigh my ability
My motivation is hindered by my stupidity

I'm sick of the annual near life experience

Depression is the zeitgeist of our generation

Correct me if I'm wrong

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
I try to hot clue my memories
The fondest, I fear, aren't even true

I feel like I'm being eaten alive
I'm a lobster in a *** slowly being boiled
My claws are being torn from me
My very soul being soiled
My heart is still beating
My legs are being ripped from my rife carcass
I cry louder than I ever thought possible
Still breathing I am in gross darkness
My eyes feel like they're going to bleed
My tail is ripped from me
I wish I could plea
But I'm just one
I'm just me

Sitting in a moon lit field
In my hands, the future I yield
I've got a personal stationary kit
But I will share