I walked into the door
A writer
Came out a poet, sleeping on the side
I'd pay someone to write down my soul
Burning out, kneeling on the midnight lamp

Burning the oil, writing my life out and away
Shall I walk in again, maybe not but I walk out of life I'm ******* dead
But, the typewriter doesn't change the words
I do, forgetting half the time that the night's right
With that hourly hand, my words live when midnight strikes
Dancing in the dark like a still-born child that don't see, jiving blindly


She lays sleeping on the side, will I stay on your side unwillingly within the crowdy picture that doesn't see you either
Or imagination keeps running away, holds on to the willful calls buying the scenery in the blink of an eye looking for a good girl
He says the midnight burns you before the truth dawns over you

Shining in the crazy echoes of looking back through mirrors in the passion and love we talk about, watching our gay silence simply sitting and staring into kiosks
Lifeless staring into the distance will not get you the vision of peace, or a simple life of kissing the love of your life away

Love you better, if you could murmur a catatonic piano and write the sterling cheque for the wordsmith
I walked into the door, for the sights
As a writer, I told the poet I wait for the words alright

Burning out, kneeling over the midnight lamp waiting to live another through another marriage of words
That's when the words softly echo with the breaths feeling heavier in my blood
Asking for another book, like a divorcee likes a half-written will