I'll say after a
good amount of
searching and reading,
conversating and listening.
That maybe its the mad ones
who sit like statues on the steps
facing Beacon street,
who may be the only
ones who really
know the truth.

There's that way we
are all supposed to be
and that cruel myth that is
happiness.
The tales they
tell as truths keep
me seeking out the
whys while beating
back the reasons.

Material joys can
numb it,
but its the drugs
that **** the pain,
new cars don't.

Let the masses look
to their religions
let it act as their ******.
For my gods are
closest when danger
is near.

There's not enough answers,
just as there are no
real Saints in
San Pedro.
As far as I can
tell.

Friends may come and go
but it's the addictions
who remain reliable.
Where people hurt
drugs comfort.

Put me in charge
of this destiny,
I've guided it thus far
through the foggy mornings
and forgotten nights.
The short lived happy times
and the hardest of times
that always outshine
them all
on paper.

Allow me a little
control of
this destiny,
however short lived
that destiny
may become.