What do you write about when you don't quite feel broken.
**** ****, lost my only inspiration.
I can't write for **** when it's not painful and emptying.
Without the feelings of love and sorrow.
These words aren't **** just hollow.

I know I feel lonely these days.
I start to write about it but look.
I get to the end of 3 verses and feel like a crook.

It was meant to be something but it twisted into nothing.
Kinda like this garbage.
Guess that's why they call it art right.
Its ugly and pointless but someone will find inspiration in my emptiness.

I know that's a long shot.
But if its justification I need.
It's all I've got.

They never quite got along,
but nothing made them feel wrong,
She always told him, "of course dear"
Regardless of what she did 'r didnt hear

And the *** wasn't ever bad,
But then again it was rarely had,
And words of love were not exchanged,
But they were never quite estranged,

So none were sad when one ol' day,
He just happened to go away,
She never spoke of him poorly,
But never praised him as close to holy,

And he never grudged the mandated checks,
Nor did he ever give her an extra cent.
He never went out to drink until hurlin',
Nor did he seclude himself like Merlin,

And then some day they up and died,
Had a nice funeral,
But I didn't cry.

Look beyond those empty windows,
Find the swollen mirrors
Twist the tables
Do they spin inside themselves?

Look at the forgotten moon
Do you see it rot too?

Do you fear the system?
Do you fear it will tear apart,
The endless rhythms you've sought to create,
Only for ghosts to read those words?

Those words that bend in augmented illusions
And dissect their hearts
So that they are thick as flat glass,
Only for them to fit.

Sure, they fit-- but they also
Shatter in a million pieces,
That crack every second in every
Unimaginable dimension.

They have not yet realized, that the image it holds
Does not hold you for good.
Instead, its folds your reality
Till it becomes fantasy.

Those words written on empty pages,
They say, it speaks full of mysteries--
Mysteries that only talk nonsense,

Are you confused?
Does your mind dwell upon the reason
A reason that does not exist?
Or so, they thought.

And perhaps, there is no reason after all,
Perhaps the words,
Could, after all-- be pointless.
In the view of them, of course.


But the only thing that's pointless, is
The words they speak,

The words of empty meanings
The words of twisted walls
The words of the swollen mirrors

They speak.

when i'd be asked in the past
'do you collect anything?'
as a child i'd feel an obligation

my friends collected buttons,
christmas ******* rings,
compiled shells,
or gas station keyrings

so i collected can tops
and squishy toys from beach side shops
pointy pointless scraps of metal
that now sit in a dusty jar
and stuffed lizards and seahorses
in a box under an old bed

and when they said
they didn't get it
i knew i didn't either
but i'd say the metal
is sentimental
it really is a keeper
honest

and now i'm older
i'm no objector
to being a collector
promise

because in a box
inside my heart
beyond the dust,
i'm honest,
i keep a stash
tied in a sash
of all the things
i've sprinkled with stardust

of all the memories
of days i loved
and too ones fogged with miseries

of scars formed from thunderstorms
for thorns are as much of a blessing
as the caressing from surrounding roses

of people who loved me
and people i despised
of eyes i glanced at once and
should i see again
would go unrecognised

for when i'm collecting moments
i am collecting lives
and there is no better way
to be alive
than revising every moment
as if it were chosen
by you
from that gas station
instead of just through obligation

The truth is...*
I fall upon the ground
A seedling in your grass
Whether I willed or not
To come knocking again
And find myself at a loss
For not giving up was my
Plan and I still can never
Win a battle no one but
I would have even fought.

Real men weep
Heroes take a stand
rumors are born
where cowards land
the strong get stronger
that longer they was the other hand
after, fighting for what is right
until you are left
beating the lesser man
be your own judge
until God takes the stand
Always choose good over evil,
at least that is the plan.

If I may be so bold
What would you do if you were told
That your emotions can't be sold
For more than your weight in gold?

Your eyes are dry and black,
Your feelings indeed lack
An emotion that is slack;
And without it, you're off track.