I once was a troubled teenager.
I was the black sheep in my family,
the rebel.

During this time I thought about self-harm,
suicide,
running away,
just finding a way to let it all out.
It was then that I started to write,
and I liked it.

I don't know how to compose music,
which is my first passion,
so I thought I might as well write lyrics.

Many times I thought a psycologist would help me,
but in the end I decided I'd rather be the troubled, insane guy I now am.

Trouble. Heartache. My own demons.
These are the reasons of my art,
and what would be of art without a reason?
Without a meaning?

Some may call me crazy.
Some may call me stupid.
Truth is I like being insane.
Normal is the last thing I wanna be,
because, to me, there's nothing interesting in normality.

I met a girl
A long time ago
Her name was Mary and she was quiet

One day she got a notecard
Inviting her to a party
Now this was the seventies so the note wasn't sketchy
And the boys who invited her were Itch and Poopsie
And no, those were not their real names,
They were nicknames so it wasn't sketchy

So she went to this party because she was the new girl
And that was a mistake
So she went to this party and made a lot of mistakes
So when Itch and Poopsie invited her back
She made the same mistakes
Over and over
Party after Party
Mistake after Mistake
Again and Again
And Mary, she was being crushed
With the beer bottles
And the invitations from Itch and Poopsie
They were taking her everywhere
All over the world
But she had trouble remembering the sights and the smells
And the only thing she could taste
Was it tears or the beer?

And then it stopped.
She woke up in a different state and a different city
And no one heard from her again
Itch and Poopsie went looking for her
But they couldn't even recognize her shadow
She hid for a very long time
She didn't go to parties
But she still made mistakes
Over and over
Man after man
Punch after punch
Bruise upon bruise
Until he broke her bones and broke her heart

And this time she made it stop.
She packed her bags for a different state and a different city
And no one heard from her again
He went looking for her in alleys and park benches
But he couldn't even recognize her shadow
She hid for a very long time
And she refused to make mistakes
It was over and over
Never again and again

I met a girl
A long time ago
Her name was Mary
And she was very, very
Quiet.

I went swimming today
Twice
Which is weird because
In the past 4 years
I have been in the ocean a total of 6 times
Even though I live
In a small ocean town
Where the beach is
A short walk away
I went in the water today
Even though I have always hated
Being wet and
Salty the feeling on my
Skin is so uncomfortable
I always detested it
I went in the water today
Because I hate the person I am
And I thought that if I changed
One small part about myself
The rest could follow
And maybe if I could learn to
Love the water
I could learn to
Love myself

Your mother was over here again.
Asking about me and you.
But the funny thing is,
She never knew about us;
Not that we were together,
Not that we broke up,
Not our history.

She was asking if I saw you.
If we were at the sam party.
Never knowing
What passed between us.
It wasn't the first time.
She's asked about us before,
Wanting to know if we were friends.

I sometimes wonder
Should I tell her?
But then I think about us
And all that happend
And I think, Better not.
Your mother was over here again
Asking about me and you.
I didn't know what to say.

I am lost,
Only to be complete in my brokenness...
An imagination left to its fragments -
Almost methodically widdled down to dust,
My body left mindless,
My soul in shambles -
I am empty.

An uninhabited cup waiting to be filled,
A blank canvas needing paint -

Who am I to wander this world?
Who am I to love someone?
Who am I to exist?

Gatsby was in love;
completely infatuated
with another being

The way he looked at her
with his anxious eyes
exhibited a love that couldn't be greater
And
the words he spoke
emitted such fondness
for her rosy lips against his
as he whispered sweet stories
that he irresistibly imagined
of their future together

he fell so in love--
he fell so tragically and desperately
in l o v e--
he lost himself completely
and became absent
in his own consciousness
trusting false hopes,
refusing to let go of what would
never be his
and if this insanity is what they call
true love--
if this is what one experiences
when such passion takes over--
then I, too
have gone Gatsby for you.

my thoughts swell from the bottom of my chipped mug
and splatter onto the dog-eared pages of my favorite book

they skip along the rainy streets in a meticulous pattern,
always traveling two steps forward,
one step back

my thoughts dart around that same right corner,
and recall the coy smiles,
searching this time for unread signs

they approach your familiar face with intention,
again trying to see what you do
through those pale eyes

i can’t help but wonder
if your thoughts have wandered
as far as mine