Please understand that when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's the concrete in my stomach, it's the staples in between my toes, it's the zip ties around my wrists, it's the scars around my wrists, it's the coals in my throat, it's the liquor in my throat, it's the liquor in the cabinet my mom never had to put a lock on until I started hiding in it, it's the noose around my neck, it's the smoke in my eyes, it's the bullet in the barrel, it's the gun in my dad's closet, it's the gun in my hand, in my mouth, when I say these things it's not really me talking, it's all these things trying to get out.

Your voice is telling me
a story.
Your eyes, another.
The blinding confusion,
it tells me that,
Perhaps it isn't a story
to be told,
But a chapter to be written.

I am denied a second time
a catching glimpse
a passerby
the endless chantering that flows through the rye
until I catch a glimpse of the other side
through your eyes
we go together

a floundering heat
an upheld beat
that swims in midst of rays
to reflect upon your gleaming eye
holding a gaze, time says lasts for days

yet it already happened
a rewound record instilling its tunes
into you
and oh!
you're already gone
refilling these city blues
guess I wasn't ready for you
oh, this generation of use and abuse
to take as material , to ignore the core
denying the message, but focusing on the tune

I guess I really am you