The evening's back again
Right on track again,
Like every night before.

Darkness falls again
Demons call again,
I really can't take much more.

Time flies by again
Children cry again,
And my agony draws a crowd.

Silence fills again
Violence kills again,
Why is it all so loud?

Preacher, don't send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.

I've known those rats
I've seen them ****
and grits I've had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.

Preacher, please don't
promise me
streets of gold
and milk for free.
I stopped all milk
at four years old
and once I'm dead
I won't need gold.

I'd call a place
pure paradise
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.

There's something poetic in
Unspoken words,
And thoughts that are never to be heard.
For the mind knows not our mouths,
But the never ending cycle of deliberation against the hierarchy of a force unknown.

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

A combination of faulty letters
Creating stumbly words of disproportion
In attempt to adequately portray the way I'm feeling
When the reality is
No number of malnourished thoughts
Can manifest into what can only be described as circumstantial emotions
On a blank canvas
Splattered in blood.
Because there comes a time
When my perturbation over this life overcomes the sentiment of warmth in this frigid wasteland we like to pretend is okay
And nobody looks back as they press on
To see me in my weakened state
Until my legs won't continue to proceed
And I'm obliged to stop
But I would have done it voluntarily because I can no longer remember what coerced me here to begin with.
As my eyes begin to close,
I await the familiar dream of tomorrow,
But it never comes.

Sometimes
I look into the sky and make sure the stars are still there,
make sure this wasn't all a dream.
Funny how the ones that sparkle the most
aren't stars
at all.

Playing connect the dots with the city lights,
something you can only do from 20,000 feet in the sky