Banging my head against a wall twenty times
never once made a good thought come to mind
Sometimes I gotta dig into my pockets
to pull out lint I turn into rockets
Once in awhile I blow up a hit song
But most of the time it's an absolute bomb

You don’t know what’s next, and that’s alright
You never really understood the idea of success
It is, in its nature, a self-defined word

You always thought you had to prove your worth
Why?
You felt the need to change something, and become noticed.
You wanted to be known.

I can only offer what I know so far.
You have to learn to validate yourself
Otherwise you will live your whole life trying to please other people.

I know that twisted wrist behind your back, I know that fake plastered smile,
I know the gritted teeth and the tired eyes.

Walk away.

.
..
...
..
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The blank page... I heard writers experience this often, but not me. Either I am not a novelist, or I'm the best one ever. How can you not find something to write on a white piece of paper, I mean a white computer screen. Maybe it's because I am penning about anything that comes to my mind, no structure, no narrative, no lesson... nothing to trigger the ego or the pride. Just pure random, meaningless writing. That's my therapy.

I'd do anything to take up space
in her notebook.
Almost anything.
Close to anything.
Most positively not that, but close to that.
A wobbly fall or ignoring a crowd of people.
walking through a double door you’d normally
have no problem walking though.
Most definitely the kind of mistake
that leaves you paralyzed.
Unable to move, taste, or breathe freely.
Paralyzed & left between the pages
she comes back & visits often.
Pages I have to relive every time I see her face.
If she turns her notebook sideways the blue lines
become a jail cell.
If she turns her notebook long ways the blue lines
become a pair of blinds & I fall.
Shifting through the pages until I hit the bottom.
I'd do anything to take up space
in her notebook.
Almost anything.
Close to anything.
Most positively not that, but close to that.
Unless she adds caution tape to the elevator shaft
Of the next skyscraper she draws.
Or maybe I'll just take the stairs

Every person we know
every animal we see
every seedling that grows
will one day decease

Every building we pass
every home we drive by
everything built to last
will eventually die

Feelings fade
and metal rusts
The things we create
turn to dust

So hold me close
my only friend
And stay sweet with me
till our bitter end

I'll have a little love with my bottle of wine
I don't mind them older, so aged is just fine
Could you make them pair well with stale pizza crust?
And have the faint odor of ******* lust?
As long as they're low shelf, I'll be just fine
So I'll have a little love with my bottle of wine