Los Angeles whispers lies in my ears while I’m sleeping
A glittered invitation of deprivation
And I awaken in darkness only to feel woe
A moment of silence for the troubled Hollywood starlet
who weeps alone after the show
Trying to scrape up words to say these days
Is like scrubbing blood out of the concrete
These palm trees no longer impress, only lulling me to sleep

Somewhere in California
I lost my innocence
I lost my self.

Somewhere in California
I fell in love
I felt alive

Somewhere in California
I was insane
I was intrigued

Somewhere in California
I was afraid
I was alone

Somewhere in California
I saw your face
You took my heart

Somewhere in California
The sun don’t shine
The night is cold

Somewhere in California
I will always stay
I’d be condemned

you're a vestigial appendage
like my appendix

you are there
but you don't do anything for me
you just are, there

i wouldn't die without you
you're not necessary, necessarily

i can't live without you
you're a part of me, partially

you're so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — "no" — lets end it

i'm so happy i never get to see you
i'm so unhappy you called
you're like a fantom vibrate
i can't believe you actually called

we're a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage

holding onto what's healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside

Temporary escape from the suburban nightmare
Into a city wilder than the jungle
Egos the size of the palm trees
There’s people scraping by
And there’s people burning money
Collecting bottles off the street
The next big thing
The wannabes
These beautiful faces
All this honest talent
It’s beautiful and tragic
These people made of plastic
This cities caving in slowly
Sorry we’re at capacity
The crows are mocking me
All my shoes are *****
Wasted time on the 405
Well I know about your connections
And I could not give a ****
Turn the sprinklers on
We’ll use the last of the water up
So when did we all decide
We’d choose this sunshine place to thrive
Does this really feel like home?
Just because anything here goes?

I've managed to escape the hellish crevice of my home, now I'm roaming languidly around finding peace and tranquility (that of which lack within me). Or so I thought as I wondered aimlessly down the road, I stumbled upon a park to which many homeless call home. Walking by your typical stoners and snot-nosed brats, I sat down on a half broken bench. Shocked at the sight of this poor maintenance I, I look up to what was a beautiful 3-tone sky and that to my surprise I've finally found it. I've found the tranquility I ever so lacked, there it was for about ten minutes before the sky blacked. The summer has brought this. The season I dread the most had bestowed upon me my bliss.

Now I find myself gazing at the full moon in between palm trees and an electricity tower. It's so eccentric but it continues being interrupted by random strangers asking for the time, for the ****** hour.

Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
Somewhere, someone still believes
the promise of prosperity
the American dream
but not much really lives in Lost Angeles
**** roaches and coyotes.

Police spotlights eye-ing up dilapidated
housing developments like a ***** show.
Cops driving slow on streets
that form lines like dope trails
like they're looking for crack
on skid row
or *****
on Hollywood Boulevard
or someone to talk to
on the last train to Union Station.

Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.

His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.