What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out?
Because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her *** off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl.
Not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard,
'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your ***** up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a **** about anything anymore child.
why don't I ******* give a **** about anything anymore?

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
and
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And though I know that you can't waste your time putting it away, 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, oil, etc. need your attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you keep telling it its still brand new
when its really old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats
so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad,
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though, its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
because
I'm still mama's mother ******' good girl,
just...
please pretend I haven't gone bad.

Bright Eyes
I know you stare at me while I sleep
Try making me close my eyes by kissing
my eyelids when i awake,
Bright Golden eyes,
Telling me more  when you steal glances at me,
Bright Golden eyes,
To my heart you bring pure surrender
Bright Golden eyes,
Though your lips remind me everytime,
That you love me all the time,
Bright Golden eyes,
Tell me more,
Bright Golden eyes,
Tommorow the sun will rise and I will come back,
I miss you and I love you
Bright dark blue eyes mine
Bright golden eyes yours
Till tomorrow. I love you

Only
    One
              Happiness
                      In
              This world
              
     Love
             And
Be
              Loved.

She left in the morning with just a burlap sack
She sat upon the bus with the sack upon her lap
She marvelled at the travellers who all looked very sad
And in the service-stop the salesmen, they all seemed very sad
And the teller and the feller selling coffee, they seemed sad
And she prayed that the city was exempt from all this sad

But when she arrived in the city not far after five
All the faces seemed blurred
And only half-way alive
So she sat by a statue, tried to pin down the picture
But her eyes weren’t adjusted, and her brain wouldn’t let her
And a man shouted at her
And another tried to tempt her
And she slept in a doorway till a cop came and kicked her

So she walked by the river where a man tried to trick her…
And as the drunks staggered homeward and the jackals closed their eyes
She began to see the city as the sun began to rise
And in the shadows of the shards and the black brick buildings
The steeples and the courtyards had their moment of revealing:

Amidst the sky-scape of Hawksmoor and the mind-scape of Blake
A landscape of Albion was summoned in its wake
And the God within the River raised his head to shake his hair
And the ancient stone of London sent a signal to her there
And the head of Bryn ascended from a mound near Tower Hill
Whilst the Southwark geese all danced to a mighty jig and reel
She heard the echoes of the anarchy of ancient London fayre’s
Where the rich never lingered, and the power never dared
She glimpsed the ghost of Jack Sheppard upon the rooftops of the Squares
And Leno’s crazy clog-dance whipped a whirlwind in the air

All the heroes of the city filled her aching soul with light
As she pulled her knees to her chest and curled her aching body tight
Cocooned now in sleep, the revelries all ended
And she dreamt the city back to life, as the worker-ants descended
And each and every day thereon she would dream as they descended

Now she sees beyond the blurs and the slate-grey etched-in faces
She sleeps amidst the majesty of all the hidden holy places
She lies outside the fear and lies; the ruckus; riot; and squall
Some say she’s an incarnation of the Holy Hermit in the wall.
But maybe she’s a frequency – outside of space and time
And the spirit of the City, within her now resides

And though the Peace of the city is killed by screaming cars
And the Light of the city extinguishes the stars
And the Heart of the city is banished to the edges
And the Beat of the city is traded by the hedgers  
The Soul of the city is safe within her hold
So pray tonight she’s wrapped up tight against the biting cold.

-And bless her when you see her and thank her for her dreams
For the dreams she weaves are miracles and we are products of those dreams

So bless her
If you see her
And maybe, you could feed her
For though the city is her lifeblood
It often fails to feed her
And if the city shall not feed her, and if she fails to dream
Well – can you truly visualise a world devoid of dreams?

-Can any of us visualise - a world devoid of dreams?