No writer ever seems to exhaust the ink
That oozes from extruded plastic tubes
Made by machines and chemicals that stink
The crowded banks of the fetid Huangpu

Cheap plastic pens are given, shared, and sold,
Tapped and gnawed, pocketed, stolen, lent, and lost
Drying and dying after they grow old
Misplaced, mislaid, decayed, but seldom tossed

A ballpoint helps us with our thoughts to think
But no one ever seems to exhaust the ink

Chop water

Carry wood

Not creator

But conduit

He can hear the voices so much clearer now.
They have him at the edge.
Starring down the barrel of a loaded gun,
At the tip of the blade,
With nowhere to run.

He's drowned it all in smoke,
But the same words still can't leave his throat.
So now he stands beneath the rope.

"Help me."
His demon's have reasoned for far too long,
Now before you stands a man
With his heart long gone.

Pleasantries swaying
in a breeze,
of misty morning
memories,
beyond the past,
is presently,
laid out in front of me,
with a future that is plain
to see, as long as things,
that are unforeseen,
don't interfere with the
dream, of leaning on a
pleasant tree swaying
in a breeze,
looking out to sea.

                 Kelly McManus

i don't know
why i still
look at your
horoscope

get out of my head

get out of my head

GET OUT OF MY HEAD

please