Every night as I lay in my bed
I am handcuffed and often lead
Into the halls of the prison of sleep
My mind confiscated by the dream police

Come to arrest me every night
Never do they read me my rights
Judge and jury all in one
Fast on the trigger with their dream gun

No chance at all for parole
When dreams are all that you know
Need a good lawyer defending me
When I am dealing with the dream police

As they are surrounding my mind
Pulling up in their black and whites
Peak out the window, all that I see
Flashing red lights of the dream police

but it's difficult
when everything
around you
is so beautiful;

beautiful and fated
for disaster
and decay.

Why do things right
When you can always do it wrong
Me and the right way
Well, we've never got along
If you do it right the first time
The second time would be all alone
Why do things right
When you can always do it wrong

If you always did it right
They'd expect it all the time
Then if you made a mistake
Somewhere down the line
They'd all be flabbergasted
That's the best way to describe
If you ever got it wrong
Instead of getting right

So...

Why do things right
When you can always do it wrong
Me and the right way
Well, we've never got along
If you do it right the first time
The second time would be all alone
Why do things right
When you can do it wrong

Death is such a terrible thing
But yet it's such a simple procedure.

The uprooting of an existence and
The relevant memory is such a
painful task
That sometimes drives us insane.
But, death is as simple as the halting of
A heart beat.

The pain and loss felt by the ones remaining
Causes incurable emptiness and dread of living,
But it is a simple as leaving through the door
And never coming back.
Or simply, not being in the same room.

Maybe if we could think of death in this way,
This oddly heartless yet logical way,
Maybe if we could think of death and saying goodbye
Like how we bid our moving friend farewell,
We would be better off.

carve my body into
your wooden canoe
sail me
like a makeshift craft
into the center of
the storm
i want to chip and fall apart
to the crack of thunder
and your syrupy voice
peeling apart
my insides

tell me something I don't already know
like what is inside
the thousands of books
archived and lost
in the libraries
of your head

gut my organs
with your sharp
unforgiving words
like no matter how much
**** i smother onto my face
I will never be pretty
enough
No matter how much I
starve and throw up
I will never be good enough
and how my writing is too
mediocre.

and when I finally decide
that enough is enough
i'll realize it's never enough
it's never enough for you
taking portions of
my sanity
until there is insanity
holding my hand
with your acid
fingerprints
ghost recollections
of 1 year ago when
instead of you
it was him
and it was ok.

And instead of you it's me
it's always been me
devilish chants
over and over
trudging through thick
hot tar to arrive at
the finish line
but you
I
have bounded my ankles
to the start

I can never forgive you
(me)
for that.