i'm tired of feeling dead inside
and having a heart
like scrambled eggs with toast.
when people start asking me,
"do you ever feel--"
i have to stop them there,
"no."
maybe i'm a black hole
swallowing itself into nothing,
or maybe a tornado
is taking me to the land of oz.

there's no place like home
there's no place like home
there's no place like home

every time i cross streets
i see lights coming at me
but everything is fuzzy
and then it's a dance,
a fun game of dare.
"hit me."

*(a.m.c.)

For every heart broken, a story is gained,
Every hypothetical forever I entertained,
Now merely an anecdote
Of how I used to dote
And I wrote, and I wrote
And I'm so sorry that all you are now
Is just another story I tell

Take me for a ride

Somewhere far, where spirits reside
Populated by death, yet lively at this time
A forgotten land where your soul is the guide
No more reason to hide, I see a ghastly fog in high tide
Past lives occupy this land, physical bodies cast aside

I just wanted to be free, a victim less crime
Escaped from reality, my ride booked ahead of time
I drifted from my body, to which i'm no longer assigned
No longer confined, a comfortable frame of mind.
Yet my joy is overshadowed by a shroud of malign influence

I feel emptier than I ever have before,
The spirits seem to implore for their previous rapports
What have I done? What have I left behind?
My entire world dissipated in the blink of an eye
The vitality of my identity of which I said goodbye
I now long for, death ensued my hue and cry

Had I known, I would have never set foot on that ride

I asked the heaven of stars
What I should give my love—
It answered me with silence,
Silence above.

I asked the darkened sea
Down where the fishers go—
It answered me with silence,
Silence below.

Oh, I could give him weeping,
Or I could give him song—
But how can I give silence,
My whole life long?

the best poetry out there
was written down and tossed away
there's too much doubt there
so the words are lost today

the best poems out there
are like stones in the creek
submerged, without air
they never get to speak

the best poets out there
they are blowing in the wind
I can hear them shout there
again and again

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