I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.

There is a bird inside of my chest along with a violet.
I don't know how it got there but for some reason it won't leave.
I am constantly woke up by singing and random pecks.
At first it was nerve wrecking.
The flutter of tiny wings scrapping the inside of my heart.
I opened my heart by some chance wondering if it would fly away.
It look at the door and pulled the door back shut with it's beak.
Nestling itself back inside the violet.
I would go to the doctor but the first thing they would ask is if I've been drinking.
By some natural instinct it would a yes that comes out of my mouth.
A bird of a different color I suppose.
Memorizing her song in my heart.
I tried to peek inside and see exactly what she was doing.
But she just filled the cracks up with feathers.
I've tried not to grow too attached as the moment I do that is the exact moment that she would leave.
In doing so, I've grown very attached.
The violet now in full bloom.
To my surprise she hasn't left.
I wouldn't have it any other way

So today is the day
You thought about being old
Your prayers suddenly became real
You saw your Dad in the backseat of a car
Until you remembered he’s no longer there

My eyes were closed
But I was still awake
I saw only grey until a small hole appeared
Inside were tiny pink flowers on a window sill
Now I’m wondering what they were doing there

It’s come down to this
Everything is a sign
It’s not so much about enjoying myself anymore
I wanted to ask someone whose been here before
So I dug a hole just to see if anyone was there

Doing yourself a serious favor
Is trying not to think so much
The answers are the usual questions
I’m not dying young but which way is the door
I drove off I but gave money to a man over there

I'm growing old.
God don't plant in straight rows,
And weeds won't hear my temperate pleas.
But harvest comes, wailing like a freight train.
I thrive in the ghost town I built.
Regret crowds the crosswalks.
I wait for you.
Hurry.