I swear,

   your
imagery

  taps
  the
acid
in my
spine.

I am a poem,
so complex.

Although,
I'd been written over
thousands of different times,
you never even read me through
once

because

you

were too

stupid.

She never said she'd stay.


I'll be okay...


...one day.

You've got a lot
of thoughts in your head,
like rocks in your bed
they keep you up.
Tossing and turning
dreaming about
buses, one that I'm on,
coming to see you.

I know it hurt you
when you hurt me
and I know
you didn't mean
for the apology
to sound so empty.

Kara told me
you aren't eating,
that the color
from your face
is fleeting, and
that the habit is there to stay.

You could
never figure
out
what was more
risky,
getting
lost
or standing
out in the crowd,
and yeah,
it's hard to make
mom proud
with all that *******
around.

I know your
neck is
still
aching
from the accident,
but beautiful,
taking medication
just isn't safe
with your
addictive
personality.
I know because
mine gets the better of me.

I know
you don't want
to hear any of this,
and I know
you don't want
to hear me,
but when you're
out of money
and you've
got
nowhere left
to go,
then I won't
sound so hollow.

Tonight,
I'll come over
tonight,
it'll be
like old times.
I'll bring the
gin
and my
violin
and we can
sing
this bottle dry.

I could
use a drink
right now,
yeah, I think
I could use
a drink right now.

The dedication
was ingrained
in his fingertips,
(like Bowie,
like Bob), yet
there was no
boldness,
no brilliance
in the decay,
(like David,
like Dylan,
lord willin').

And so
I asked him:

Shall I
dare

to play
Baudelaire
over six flights
of stairs?

No?

Is it really worth
that much to you?
Is it worth anything at all?
Is just getting away always good enough?

And then I said to him,

kid,
sometimes
you gotta bury
'em.
And this is coming
from me with my chest
resting on the ground.

Snicker snicker, giggle giggle,
it's funny,
the way your pen wiggles.

Hustlin' out of your garage,
it never takes us far.
My hands are in your hair,
now it's all up in the air...

Hard love in your garage,
hey now, we are what we are.

And it's okay darling,
for the stage you're in,
'cause you're still shedding
so much skin.
Push the blood to the tendon -
lend me a hand, save Sunday
for sleeping in.

When the rhythm hits
and the syllables split,
I'm just trying you.
If I get to heaven,
or, if I could only
just get the hell on
out of here,
it would be
'cause I followed you.