Have you ever noticed
how you don't have anything?
Not that girl
you pretend to put
in your glove compartment
when she's in your gloves?
Or a car?
Or a job?
Or real, feasible hope?
Or Fuck all?
Put yourself in my position,
I can't stand looking at you,
your head caves in at the middle
like dough with a thumb print,
and you could fit
two nipples
or two clitoris'
in that nose of yours.
All you think about is sex, companionship and pancakes.
A lack of hope,
that's what's missing,
I'm talking
feasible hope,
that's the one you really need.
If you could feel it
like yesterday's bile
still on your tongue,
maybe it'd be easier for me
to work with that head.
Or
those gloves,
if you actually put them on
instead of pretending to put them on,
instead of playing with that girl.
Tell her what's really going on,
even though she'll laugh
and laugh
and laugh.
Tell her you're actually going insane
every second.
A shish-KABOOM
that slows down faster
than accelerated Swiss particles speed up.
Tell her about your heart,
that underneath the ink across your chest
there's something else tattooed.
Or maybe she won't say anything
and you'll be talking to
fingers in a dirty glove.
A car would be good too,
you could go places,
use those free passes to Puregold
your friend gave you.
Then again,
you'd want to save every woman alive after going there;
you'd think you could do it,
some hero,
some fake,
some male with a complex.
And finally
the job.
You have over $10,000 in outstanding loans,
either you get a job
or I do the right thing for the both of us.
So do you really want all this?
Want to be young?
Want to know what it's like
to have this fucking heart
and keep it forever?
A heart that doesn't shut the fuck up
and goes off calling angry everybody's
at four in the morning
because it's drunk?
Want to know about fear?
I'm not talking wise fear,
I'm talking fear-of-death;
tiger-in-a-bunny-suit fear.
Once you turn those lights off
and can't handle yourself in the dark
then you'll know my fear.