Maybe I'm shooting in the dark.
Maybe I'm shooting at something that's not really there.
It doesn't feel fair
that I have to be
such a lousy shot.

I'm not a robot.
I'm not calculating.
I'm not cold and defining.

I might be running through rivers of black ink.
I might be breathing in the noise.
I might be doing anything at all, but I don't think
I could fail to notice.

I'm not just ignorant,
I know what's happening,
but I can't admit anything at all.
I'd rather fall

into the staining, screaming streams
that claw at my callused feet.
I'm running
with no street
to follow.

The shining ink's close
to me, but it's not
how I want to go.

I really am flailing at nothing,
but I realize
I was never breathing words,
I was breathing in these thick and heavy woods.

I can't keep running.
I've destroyed that part of myself.
I keep the perfect things on a shelf
where I can't reach them.

Please, tell me again
how I am not breathing in
your words like oxegyn.

My lifeline, my lifeline.
I can't find it.
I'm drowning, I'm drowning.

Pulling muscle and
refusing to keep it down
preparing to drown.

You are not quite yet up in years,
but to your ears:
familiar are the faded tunes, dripping from the radio like soda from bottles you didn't quite close,
tapping from your stiff foot.

On the asphalt you walk barefoot,
because we walk barefoot where we live.
You are alive where you drive.

You are not quite yet up in years,
but in your ears:
sound declines
like each hill you descend in the fifty-two miles of wild between us,
and you ignore the posted signs
telling you to quiet the roaring and whipping of wind in your busted windows,
telling you to slow the tearing and straining of your tires.

On the asphalt and off, you know how to set fires,
because your late old man and your unseen mother taught you how.
You may not know, but I see how you deepen your brow.

Old Blue has more troubles that you may care to admit,
because she can only just make it.

Neither of you are quite up in your years,
and still I have my fears,
but they are not tears,
because you
and Old Blue
take us where we can get lost
and not feel the loss.

Pulling muscle and
refusing to keep it down
preparing to drown.

Pain was never pretty,
illness was never "in,"
I'm not looking for anyone to save me,
I'd just like to make someone happy,
I'd just like to have a friend.
One who doesn't leave when my time with them has to end.

Sick was never jealousy envoking,
and crying till 2 A.M.
was a thought unvisited.
I don't long for someone to come along and hug me,
but I can still imagine
that somebody enjoys my company,
and that we can get lost in senseless fun.

I didn't even know that I am lonely,
until I remembered that everybody still sleeps with the promise that they will see each other again,
and until I saw pictures of my friends that made me remember everything about them.

Their only friends are not endless rituals
and tears in the middle of the night,
or halfhearted struggles in a heartless fight.
They have companions to meet their ends,
the ones that used to be my friends.

Everybody that I love
is so far away that all I have of them is some debris in my mind,
crafted from memories,
of a friendship so kind, or at least one of a kind.

Do you remember all the times you said you hate me?
Do you remember all those times you said you didn't care?

Mama, I promise I'll do better.
I'm quite sorry, or don't you see?
Mama, I promise this is the last time
that I make you so mad we lose our hair.
Mama, I promise I'll be more like my sisters,
and I'll be everything you want.
Mama, I promise I've always been here.
You're putting this all out on your kids.
Now, how is that fair?
Mama, I hate this way that we live.

Mama, I always hear you.
I hear you saying,
"You're a monster;
there's not enough going on in your head to distract you!
You're such a *******."
I feel wrong saying you abuse this family,
especially since others have it worse,
but now I hear everyone saying it,
so I admit it at least a little bit.

Mama, I'm calling him Isaac,
and I'm calling myself David.
I'll never come out to you,
because you're just that predictable
that I know just what you'd do.

Hear the proclamation of Isaac,
everyone we know who knows you thinks you're insane.
Hear the proclamation of Isaac,
people are offering to call someone on you
and take us away.
Hear the proclamation of Isaac,
we know you cannot change,
but it doesn't redeem you.

Dreamer, dreamer,
you always wake up as if you haven't slept,
and all it is that you've kept...
the fatigue of your trials,
the soreness of your miles,
the torment of the lifestyles.

Your sleep is all dreams,
stemming out from your river of life like streams.
You dream of everything that you can't do,
and what the world deems impossible.
Incomprehensible,
to everyone but you.

Dreamer, dreamer,
is there anyone to watch over you in your slumber?
They could give you a number,
of the hours of your rest.
It's long enough to slip into dreaming,
but lately it's seeming,
not enough to give you energy.

Dreamer, dreamer,
if you ever sleep enough, if you ever don't dream,
you'll notice the fatigue doesn't go away,
but you hope it will anyway.

You're scared to find out,
so you keep on restricting your time in bed,
even though it's slowing down your head.
I don't have a doubt,
you're tired beyond dreaming.

Dreamer, dreamer,
there are things to take for your rest.
You try your best,
oh dreamer, you do,
but there are some things you just can't do.

Dreamer, dreamer,
how do you do it?