and burn down the whole ****** neighborhood
and **** all the ****** people living here
and destroy everything that rests along these ****** tracks
that have cut through the earth and have lead so many places.
i remember when i followed the ****** things
and found how the ****** way the railroad system works
and saw all the sights on the ****** way to my revelation
that we're all bound to some sad ending; ****** and meaningless.

i feed her my words
like you'd feed someone sick
the pills as their ailment

i feed her my love
like you'd feed a baby bird
its life frail and in lament

the mother's dead
the baby's chirping
the birds all say
that this is working

i feed her my ideas
like you'd feed a toddler
with spoon in hand; shakingly

i feed her my death
like you'd feed the poor
standing on corners, begging; incessantly

this is working
i believe it now
i see it working
but can't see how

i feed her life,
as you'd feed me.
i feed her knowledge,
and set her free.

hours of isolation in quiet company,
                                                       ­    though, they never seem to appear
                                       as much to your eyes
                                                            ­                 as they have to mine.
                                        *the humming of the television,
                                                    ­                                   dully lulling the visions in the mind
                                       into the shapes
                                                                ­         they're made for;
                                                          ­    searching synapses and relapses
                                                         for just another answer to the mystery
                                                         ­                                                                 ­    to what's going on,
                       here in my dreams.
                                                         ­     the company stays after i've left,
                                                           ­   as they find it comfortable there,
                                                          ­            stuck; subconsciously
                                                ­                     segregating themselves.

completely true
yet slightly fabricated
the life you're living
isn't the one you'd imagined
so now you try and try
harder and harder
to change the way you are,
the person you've become, now,
just won't allow it;

you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

there's little parts
                              scattered about
                              placed randomly
                              what you'd call a mess
                              but in perfect harmony
                              

organized now*
                              everything in its place
                              but there's not a place for me
                              so i sit among the system
                              being whatever i am; just to see

                                                                                                           if i really fit in with everything
                                                                                                           forever dreaming to *be
                                                                                                           forever young; a kid once more
                                                                                                           disorganized and criticized freely

without a care in the world

integrity must've been a four-letter word
seeing how you can only see syllables
as you stole every last bit of sense
that anyone around you ever heard of
just to make some sense of your own
honing the skill set for nothing in life
but the simplicity of generalities
overcompensation for the lack of love
and loving the compensation all give
unknowingly, robbed blind; now blinded
shouting every four letter word
they count for the actual lettering.

have you seen it recently?
have you moved it somewhere i wouldn't look?
i've searched for days now, and i've come up with nothing.
i think it's mixed in somwhere where my bob dylan t-shirt is,
lost for the rest of my time as a sad, sick soul on this planet.
are you sure you didn't move it before you left?
have you heard anything?

but the uncertainty still rests in your eyes.
restlessness crawls through your mind,
and you're still saying to yourself, "i've got to try."

it's happened too quickly,
and you're still holding on to everything.
as you're holding on sickly,
you're looking for just about anything

to break your heart again.

out here, on the roads, we're redemption awaiting our realization.
in here, i'm dead, lost out on the highway, bleeding immensely.
there's a life to be had driving these days and nights,
but i'm here, sitting, watching them all pass by and dreaming.
hardly sleeping, hardly breathing, carcinogenic life,
before a carcinogenic death; nobody wants my organs, they're cancerous.
i'm dreaming, again; in here, i create reality, and after all, isn't it a creation of our minds?
out there, there's people passing, clashing, and making their ways.
in here, i'm working, dreading the deadline i've set for myself;
working from home, working alone, all on a dream we're dying to dream again.
wearing down the weary mind i've got to make your dreams another reality.
like i've said, it's a creation we're all working on
so why am i the only one doing the work for the reality you're dreaming of?
*i'm dying, again; out there, i'm nothing but a dot on a map, drawn out to be a lead in some play.

the slight imperfections
play off the light
as you're enlightened;
i see through these cracks
in the facade you're covered in.

the simplest idea
pulls me in again
towards the destruction;
we're bleeding through, now,
as we're drained of our safety.

the farthest reach
was felt across the span
of time and space again;
through the mind's eye
we still blind ourselves to love.

these masks we wear are cracked and exposing vital spots to the ugliness in our character.

we just can't break our act.

here i sit
above you
above the streets
above the sounds
of the ruined lives
that drive
through these alleys;
here i sit
below the church
beloved by god
below his reign
as his reign drives
us toward sanctity
and through our lives.

we're all looking up
for something;
weather, stars, answers, etc.

here i dream
above my pillow
above the streets
below my window
where you're still driving
yourself toward the end
of the road, and up an alley;
here i dream
below this roof
below the skies
above the ground
where you're dreaming
you'll spend less time dreaming
and more time in peace
through death.

we're all looking down
for security;
placement, terrain, estrangement
of self in a solid form above digging
deeper for something so simple
that we're still unsure of.

there's something in the middle of this
i'm not so clairvoyant to see it
but it's scaring me and thrilling me
and it's causing me too much ****
that i'm starting to lose the touch;
the numbing of my finger tips
is only from the callouses from playing
and they linger, although now
i hardly play.  i only sing.  not well.

it frees my head, let's me feel
less dead; alive in five, i say.
not jive, less to survive for
as we're sure this is where it stays
before the ending, we're entranced;
caught in another ring of life
straining to see the light in the tunnel
as we funnel all the information
to our brains.  to be insane.  to be a frame...


for that picture

through the windows of another idea
and into the depths of the idealism they've formed
around the whole sanctity that's building
and filling in the cracks of the pane you smashed.

with a whiskey bottle out of rage,
broken glass fell in an instant and all has fallen
we're filling in the space it's left
with tape and hopes to keep the chill out.

out of the room and into another
just to breathe for a little while without a dream
in mind; we're dying for a change to fall
upon our laps and down through our veins.

emptied of all your belongings
and now filled with ideas of what it'd be like
with another who'd filled your shoes
just as quickly as they'd been emptied; full.

that for a minute
you're actually alone.
you'd like to think
you had this all figured out;
there's nothing to hide.

you might dream
that for a night
you're actually happy.
you'd like to dream
you had it all in your grasps;
there's nothing worth holding on
to that you've already let go of.  

please continue to let go.

dreading the moments here in silence
and spreading this infection further;
sooner than expected, silence becomes
the music i need tonight, up until now.
the day had wrought out from the inside
and now i devise a new escape plan
where i can rely on my debatable qualities
and where i make it out, somehow.
alive.

another brittle mind
shed in light;
enlightened after such severity,
and stable enough to think
through the idea that i'm lost.

there's enough here
that we all can find enough ways;
that there's a reason to think
still, although we're conditioned
by ourselves; myself.

projection, direction, interjection.

busted and ****** into the street
again to gallompf about
and start the trip out.

the mechanization of this way to will our minds still fights itself
and we're losing the battle as we rule our lives from out of our minds;
in our souls, and still through the placement of shrines in our halls.
it's filled at the altar with sacrifice after sacrifice,

and today, i think i'm going to sacrifice drinking too much and gaining something to feel.

broken glass,
broken hearts
broken promises
but most of all,
the real thing that sticks out
is the broken ways that this came to break.

broken glasses
broken windows
broken bottles
but most of all,
the last thing on my mind
is the broken idea of love you'd left me with.

another slip
of the tongue
and it's a world of hell.
tasted purification
elongated salutations
to the people; dead
and walking shells.
burnt out
turnt about
for display purposes only.
and you're not allowed to look.

there's never a reason for a grudge,
especially when i was the one left in the mud,
stuck in the rain, freezing and shivering,
now sickened with depression and mistrust.
hardly catching any hardening of the spirit,
allowing the gruesome idea of solitude fill in,
and now it's quiet; the birds gave up their song.
i'm dreaming again, and it's lovely; there's hardly a reason for anyone to care here.
and there's the death of my spirit again as i collapse
behind the wall that you built for my support,
as my foundation; founded on morality and respect,
i'd fallen again and scraped another bit of my shell off.
back to the dream again, and again to the back of the dream; the real reason we're displayed this imagery.
ah.

i remember a time when at least somebody cared,
when everybody had something to care about,
and when nobody went a day without a care in the world.

we can't stop the way we've lived, but we can change how we're doing so

her voice still echoes inside my ear canal before striking the drum,
and i clench my jaw in time to feel the final beat before i hear the sound.
it's me finding another reason to escape this harsh reality and dream a bit longer.


you're only dreaming because you want to, and due to this lack of awakening, you're still searching the brain for reasons to wake up

there's never been enough time on the clock to get it all done in time,
and in time, we're all caught up in the second hand's ticking.
you'd think the disorder of time would've caught up with it by now and
lessened the burden we're carrying as the human race.

*dreamscape existentially and exquisitely for another day

this idea's haunted me long enough
and this house is creaking louder and louder.
there's enough spirits left in here
that there's never enough silence.
the death's filled our heads with love
and the life's drained us of emotion.
we're turning lifeless and senseless before the masquarades unveiling.

there's a lie through the ages
that we're all doomed to a similar end
but when you've seen the end of it all
and think all your time is spent,
you'll see the time's spending less on you
and more on its own reconstruction,
restitution, and resolution for another second
spent out in the night screaming that it's
midnight.  there's no time left for today.

i can't be racist
if i can't be free
i can't be vicious
if i just can't be
so i choose my sights
and i show my way
i'll take my flight
and hide away
from the darkness
that's calling me
it's dangerous
and it's me who sees
the detrimental life
that's dragging us along
without a price
on any other song
that i've written
and that i've sung
that i've been
and when i've begun
to let this all fall
to the floor at your feet
as you find the call
that's calling defeat
of the soul
of the mind
of the cool
waste of your time
so open your eyes
and see what i do
nothing left to disguise
but what thought you knew.

falling
lightly
flight
not quite,
it's still just
falling.

floating
weightless
lightly
through nothing
and still held
on something.

grasping
nothing
tightly
you're falling
deeper now
into life.

your voice is still echoing in my head
and through my walls; entire blocks
drearily sinking deeper into the night
as i shrink into my corner of this block.
i swear i heard you singing that song
that you'd been whispering in my ears
and that i've been humming; i don't know
the words to the music constantly in my head.


                                                           i know the words to the music
                                                          that i'm making up as i go along.
                                                              they're simple in their meter
                                                         and matrices that they're filling in.


i'd written you a love song, but you're gone
and when i see you, i don't think the words
that i'd spoken to you over the phone;
i think in the stylings of love that'd been forgotten.
it seems like they linger through to the dawn,
and they hang on every whisper that i still hear.
they hang around, never quite leaving here.
they're hanging on, and they're still so clear.

street signs and side-winding snakes drew a map
to the end of all times and time stood still;
there was no way of getting that image out of my head,
especially after i'd studied the difference in the maps
that they drew, and the one i'd been given.

graced by the simplest idea that we're heading somewhere,
we stop and relax; let the time flow through us.
there's enough left here for all to just enjoy it,
but we're not enjoying as much as we should for ourselves;
there's greed in their eyes, don't you see it?

can you see the stars in their heads, shining
brightly enough for us to have a beautiful path at night,
and once the sun has risen, their dreams will die.
replaced with the harsh realities that this is where we're at,
and soon, we'll be nowhere faster than the last time we headed out.

"follow the signs, they're hard to miss," he told me,
and i believed i could read them all; indifference
catches me off-guard and throws me to the next one.
'wrong exit,' i thought. 'we're gonna have to turn around.'
time to backtrack again; always caught out here naked.

she laughs and my stress dissipates.
her love's taken my hate away
and replaced it with another feeling to anticipate;
the warmth in my heart heats me
even after she's left me here in bed,
dreaming of her more and more.
awaiting my awakening to her
in the cold darkness of my room
just one day sooner than anticipated.

this anticipation's leading to frustration,
although it's creating a deeper longing,
and this is where i know i've been belonging;
her love's my home, and i'm her house.
only built on the sands of shifting time,
sturdy and stronger daily as the shift comes closer
to sliding us deeper and deeper in love.
i anticipate the deepness of love; it's where i belong.

beaten and scorned for this
dragged through the streets
bearing my cross
i feel christ's pain.

as he cried out that they didn't know,
he was crying for their ignorance,
their deceit, their cracked foundations,
and their fallen ideals.
as their idol bled to death,
hanged with no noose.

frustrated
sedated
created
complicated
syncopated
underrated
and decimated.

saints and secrets
created over the span of a life
written down and read aloud
to make it valid; it's crowded
in here, where we're living
day in and day out, in our heads.
we seek escape; there's enough here
to feed the whole brain.
i think i'd rather let it starve
after the last time i watched it fill up
on the ideas they'd lead me into believing
and how they ate what was left
when i was just trying to prove i was right.

there's nothing left to prove here
they've made their points,
and they're making it poignant
that there's nothing left in their points.
once i begin pointing any of it out,
i'm the one who's a heretic
and i'm the one who's corrupting
the true imagery they're trying to paint
in the canvas of everyone's minds.

blank, white, and pure at birth,
filled in over age with the brush strokes
and the colorization that's found
in nature as naturally we create
the world we see, how we see it, and why.
tell anyone what's right and what's wrong
and you're telling just another lie.
you're the artist, and your interpretation's lingering
as you tell me about the way you've painted the sky,
they way you've painted your life,
and the picture you're painting,
well, it's getting darker and cracking with age.

as you wander about the museum,
you'll find them; saints and secrets.
hidden in each piece of art, you're painting
the pictures you're seeing in your own mind
and as they fade into memory,
they're pointing themselves towards you;
introvert and reveal you're findings.
nothing but secrets you'd kept from yourself,
as well as the sainthood you'd been seeking,
redemption for the belief you let yourself believe.
and here i am, the heretic.

another restless night
laying there; trapped.
her head on my arm
my head in the ceiling,
accepting this; dreading this,
she catches herself dreaming.
i crawl out of bed,
make the night longer
and think of what to think
as i think harder and harder.
then, out of silence,
her voice still ringing in my ear,
"i'm cold."
i stop thinking,
and warm her again.

we tell our children
never to tell a lie
but that's all we feed them
and they'll be fed til they die
because the truth's too painful
when you find it in yourself
and even harder to put down
when it's come down off a shelf
in a bottle
in a lighter
in a song
in the freezer
under the steps
under your feet
under your head
and in your sleep.
you'll find it anywhere, once you admit that it's what's killing you.

out of sorts
and sorted out;
in senses of shorts
and shorted for love.

caught in life
as i fell to death
to be caught stealing
your heart and your head
from the skin you'd held them in.
now they're caught up in me
and they're catching on;
i'm hardly thinking,
bleeding, and breathing.
i'm living.  imbalanced.

caught in the burning of somethings you'd owned
in your masochistic daze you're loved by none
and you're loved by the only thing that's ever mattered
the incessant beatings you'd taken by yourself;
for yourself, you let them go on, like you couldn't stop
and now you're just lighting your whole life on fire
and lighting the way to an early grave, enslaved
by the nicotine staining your fingers, draining your lungs
of sweet, succulent oxygen, openly displaced by carbon monoxide
and yet there's only blackening and death on the inside.

this has to be cut-out or you're just going to end up on another page; immortalized for your love of something choking you to death; deadened from the disease you couldn't ****.

i'd go back to sleep
just to dream some more
and wake up in the morning
a little extra sore
from the tossing and turning
that went on the night before
but when i'm dreaming
i'm lost inside my own core
and i feel the sights i've heard of
as if they weren't just folk lore
and i hear the feelings i've seen
exhibited on your front door
and i see the sounds you're emanating
coming through the floor
as you wake up yourself
in the afternoon around quarter til four
you find i'm not here
i'm just dreaming anymore.

you've cut up your past
into tiny fragments
for the detailing of a future
that's now your assignment.
something you're figuring out
that isn't so predictable,
when your entire life
all your guesses were ridiculed.
as they fit together
to form something new
you're seeing there's still some bits
that feel like they're missing you.
to amend this situation,
you pick up the phone
and make a few calls
and see how things have been at home.
but nobody's answering
and nobody's calling back
i've figured it's better to live life
than to ever want to lack
love.
it's a feeling
and soon it's healing
but the scars exist
and you can't resist
the facts of life you've realized, you're realizing, and have yet to have this grand realization that nothing's perfect.
*perfection was a theory they never perfected.

shine on, you perplexed ruby red light; shined on for your years of ambiance, and now the shine's seemingly dulled.
as the illuminated street signs show you the way out of your own head and into the house where you'd rather sleep all day than clean, read or create; illustriousness never held much of a hold on the mind you've let burn into a pile of carbonated waste.
in the silence you've surrounded yourself in, you've found that there's too much going on in your own head for anything to ever be quiet, so you scream.
as the death of another loved one fills your heart with sorrow and pain, there seems to be a new reason to figure this one out on your own; there was nothing you'd missed over the years, but you've always seemed to ignore the social ques and questions you knew felt needed left unanswered.

in light, there is darkness.  and in darkness there is light.  it's all a matter of perspective.

sooner or later you'll find out your thoughts are a sin:

                        drugged and lugged through the halls you're living in
                        until you've accepted their embracing concepts
                        and their defacing analysis of your character; you're dead.
                        their pale, fluorescent lights hum in your head
                        and clean out the cobwebs that you've let build up
                        until you've been completely cleansed of your transgressions
                        and until you've figured out life's not about progression.

sooner or later you'll find out you're life's been overanalyzed:

                        created for the sake of boredom and then criticized
                        by yourself, your peers, and the people who you never knew;
                        they'd never known, not even yourself, but you guessed.
                        there was no reason to make an estimate, you're blessed
                        through your admission of self, sanctity, and painful denial
                        of the truths they'd tried to make you disbelieve;
                        now you're ready, you're certain, and soon, you'll be freed.

the decrease in morale seemed to linger
across the keys as i dragged my fingers
to the beat of something simple in mind,
simple in length, and simple in rhyme
but the reasons i'd continued to continue on
were never meant to be played as a pawn
in the constant fight i'd been having alone
with the uncertainty ringing in my phone
where i heard them utter the news i'd heard
and hearing this knew that i'd gotten word
of what i was to be knowing for some time
and now that i was knowing was too sublime
as the filtration of this seems to fall off
and all i can seem to do is hold in this cough
to keep from releasing my sickness to you
and keep you safe from what's keeping me blue.
safe from harm's way.

in the entire existence you've been
there's been something you've cleaned
and where you're wanting a renewed dream
of what it is you want yourself to see
but you just won't open your eyes.
there's some dust still covering it all
and you're still waiting to fall
from how far it is you've called
down the line and up the hall
for them to know you were coming.
and now it's been said
there's nothing left in your head
but the simplicity of your dread
from the beating in your bed
that you'd watched outside of yourself.

knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.

caught up in the anxiousness following me
around the aisles of this store
and here i stand, typing and writing,
finding this all to be just another bore
into the wooden frame i'm supporting my soul with.

the coldness left in my room,
after you'd left,
leaves me wanting your warmth,
your beauty,
your breath on my neck.
the coldness left in my heart,
before you,
warms itself from your words,
your soul,
your eyes on my lips.
the coldness left throughout my house,
constantly dreary,
warms itself from your presence,
your laughter,
your hair, tangled in my fingers.

and you'd done it all with nothing,
but the simplicity of kindness and the complexity of love.
there's so much here, i feel it, but i still don't know what.
words haven't described such things;
shakespeare's sonnets won't even make sense of it.

and you'd made me almost speechless,
but the words always have found their ways through.
there's so much i want to say; still figuring it out.
give me time, my darling, i plead;
there's so much more that i'll be sure to soon admit.
                                                                                      mostly of the true beauty within you

the warmth i feel now,
after you came,
leaves me wanting your touch,
your kiss,
your love to be all mine.

there's never been enough time
for me to ever really think
about the ways they see me
when i tell them about my shrink.
when i tell them about my fears.
when i tell them about my occupation,
my situation,
my predication,
my annihilation,
and my contemplation
of the simplest things left around me.