The world is crumbling around me,
And you want to turn it into poetry.

You won't pick up the phone
Because you don't want to hear my voice.
Baby, my voice is all that's left.
It's the only hope I have,
The only way to make it out alive.
So clueless behind a keyboard, so far away.
If you could see how somber this city is,
How loveless, how grey,
Maybe you'd pick up the phone.

If everything collapses,
I'm going down with it.
God knows you won't lend a hand.

I walk this path alone,
Like I always have,
Only this time
It ends at the lake
And I keep walking.
Maybe I'll find you down there
Among the shipwrecks:
My own Benedict Arnold.

Please pick up the phone.