Oh, life like it used to be...
It used to be life-like.
I loved like the loved I’m supposed to be...
I’m supposed to be loved, right?

Still when I wake up I will be
surprised that i'm still alive.
I can't still the movement in my psyche
enough to paint a still life...

How can I paint a painting of significant realism
if I don't even feel real, even in the times that I kissed 'em?
How can I feel alive if my dreams make more sense?
My senses stronger, dreaming harder, and more innocence...

Oh, life like it used to be...
It used to be life-like.
I loved like the loved I’m supposed to be...
I’m supposed to be loved, right?

Oh, lifelines will never save me
I've paved out my life time
I loved well and, well, he loved me
At least he loved me, right?

they say i’m *****, i swear that i’m not
i never touched a feet before
or felt a japanese tongue

its more about the overall tone of it
i keep telling them
the dirtier you write
the cleaner the soul

I stand here today:
The mayor of this broken town;
The president you needed;
The one to lead us home.

Except today, you sit.
You do not feel joyous.
You do not believe.
You have fallen, clutching for dear life.

Tomorrow, I think, will be more.
Lustrous I am, at the thought:
Of my own words;
Of my own promises.

Give to you what I plan for me,
Giving back what I did not take.
Tomorrow, you will have more than today,
You will have more than you could ever dream.

Realism was never my strong point.
I stand here full of dreams.
I stand here with less than you need.
But I stand here.

Because yesterday was the worst of all.
Yesterday broke us.
Yesterday took a piece of us with it,
Took more than we can replace.

You sit quietly, teasing the words from my mouth.
It is you I stand here for.
Your soulless eyes waiting,
For me, for more.

i hold no rose-tinted illusions
of how my life will write itself
i'm not a rose or a daydream
no, not as intoxicating or sweet
i am not warm sunshine and
i can't paint you blue skies
my tongue isn't honey and
my conscience isn't pure
i am none of the things you could call pretty or demure
no, i am the smell of old crinkly books,
dusty and lingering
i am anti-depressants and beat poetry
empty cups of tea and crumbs from a cookie
i am grey mornings when it's too cold
to leave the covers, the slow sting of *** burning in your throat
i am a Del Rey track and perhaps a Taylor Swift one too
do not compare me to a summer's day
i am neither "lovely" nor "temperate"
i am the sum of every shortcoming
and every strength
of every smile i've given a stranger
and every filthy insult too
i won't tell you to take me as i am
because i'm not here for you to take
no, what i say is
don't call me a rose
and forget that roses wither
and have thorns too.

Under the table, no one
gets in the way with giant shoes
my world can exist there –
until dinner

the houses, roads and construction projects
with all the thoughts of the people
I can read and answer –
with new plans

In the summer there are tables in the garden
with clips on the long cloths
swaying in the light of the wind –
my tent after dinner

which was small and dark at first
full of adults' legs
but cheerful with their voices –
my other world

I stroke the dry grass
clear ways for the ants
and breathe the strange air –
of roses and sweat

I hope I never go back
Knowing I will have to anyway
It smelled like a welfare office
Like stale *** smoke
Like old cigarette butts
Like mildew stained clothes
It was a “scent free zone”
So said the sign on the wall
But I’m telling you
There was a lot of scent in there
For a place not meant to stink
Probably because it was
After all, a welfare office
Where you take your number
Off the roll at the door
While bureaucrats take their time
Wait till you can’t sit
To have them tell you
“The forms are all online.
You apply on the computer.
There’s nothing I can do.”
At one time, it was an insult
To tell someone their job
Could be replaced by a computer
But now it’s happening
It’s no longer a ridiculous statement
It’s not even funny anymore
That the livelihood of humans
Depends on machines
The days they call you to their desk
To tell you - you have a cheque
Those are the good days
When the sun holds still awhile
To let you feel its warmth
A short-lived sigh of relief
That’s as good as it gets
When the people who hold
Every dollar you own
Are loyally subject to machines
You’re on a fixed income
As the saying goes
But too small an income to ‘fix’ jack all
You can swallow your pride
But the guilt keeps coming back
I must have looked terrified
In the security camera footage
Life is a garden
But it smells
like a welfare office

"Sit down",
I stood

"Don't run",
I could

"Take it",
I'm good

"Be happy",
My mood

"Routine and rote",
'Bizarre' I wrote

Crisis is here,
We need a maverick!
Sans fear,
Somebody, quick!

I stood

What are you?
attractively modified faces
On the souless corpse
Thriving for redempion
Whilst hatred runs through blood
There’s no place for you
In the deepest ocean
Nature knows what you do
How you destroy your own home
While singing the happy songs of conventions
When in reality plastic nations
are signing their own westphalian papers.
You play the games with the air you breathe
by selling carbon.
You cry for signed documents,
which do not change a thing.
You want to close your eyes
and destroy what took so many years to build.
And for what?
Tell me.
Tell your family.
Tell your planet.

Rip, rip, rip!
Red glazed paper
Cling, cling, cling!
The falling sugar
Whirr, whirr, whirr!
Grinding of the beans
Stir, stir, stir!
Till the surface gleams
Drip, drip, drip!
Dripping black ocean
Sip, sip, sip!
The bitter decoction

Sweetheart
Ain't it sweet enough
To believe there's someone we're made for
But it's never enough sugar
in that sachet
Why does love last as long as it's paid for?