Just how long have I to wait

For that single word:

"Hey"

Spin does the hour hand

Spent filling a sieve with

sand

All those months where everyday

I watch Life simply fly

away

Is it true that one day I can

Hold a friend's warm

hand

So many long lonely days

And nothing can I really say

And not much I can do but

wait.

I ache to say it to

somebody

but I can't say it

to myself

How far away you are!

and yet how close I make you!

I lie on the floor and whisper

my darkest thoughts

my best thoughts

to my mind's ghost of you

Your flesh is like blankets

your lips feel like pillows

the cotton resembles the touch of your hair

and the voice of you

is mine shot softly through the air

Future is a script written within my head

with no facts of which are proven right or wrong

And the Past is only as corruptly read

like a bird gulping it's spring morning song



But Present's not stable; undefined instead,

as ice is a liquid, be shattered and strong

Soars with the bullet, from the chamber it fled

and moves like a snail pushing itself along

19 truths



1. Black-eyed peas do not work

2. There's nobody to kiss tonight

3. I can't open or drink champagne

4. Resolutions rarely happen

5. It's only just another day

6. I'm always awake at midnight, anyway

7. Tomorrow comes fast when older

8. Staying up is nothing special

9. Our calendar is meaningless

10. I needed sleep tonight

11. Our family is sick of each other by now

12. I've been too lazy

13. 365 days ago I cut myself the first time

14. I've changed, maybe for the better

15. I made my own dictionary

16. I don't know why I'm treating this day as important

17. School's halfway through

18. And basically everything seems dead, superficial, and meaningless

19. But I don't care

We are

the people driving the streets

the reporters we love and hate

We are

the surgeons, the murderers

the rebels, the senators

We are

the protesters and police of state



We are

the painters with wondrous galleries

the athletes in the Hall of Fame

We are

the poets, the con artists

the impoverished, the satirists

We are

the forgotten with no face forlorn with name



We are

the dead and the children of life

the writers of what the future's for

and so as infants we will rise

when we haven't parents anymore

A table lined with women

and girls

and gray chairs with wool

on which

clothes of the color of stars on

American evil

that the sweetest

most innocent thing

was cloaked in and

sat with curiosity