You want to see naked truths?

    Look into the sun.
    War makes billionaires.
    Puppet dictators make billionaires.
    Slave wages make billionaires.
    Addictions make billionaires.
    Bought politicians make billionaires.

    Look into the moon.
    Most of us are fools
    who live by rules.
    We wear denim and flannel
    and pray to God Almighty.
    We buy a suit off the rack
    to wear to weddings and dances
    and funerals. We'll be buried in it.
    We eat casseroles and drink cheap beer.
    We stink from the work we do.
    We laugh as hard as anyone, maybe more.
    You'll find us pinching pennies at Walmart.
    We just have one spouse from high school
    and we sleep in the same bed and cuddle.

    Look into the abyss if you can stand it.
    It's pitch black. Blinded by the sun or just
    sick to death of truth's brutality?
Buried in forever midnight.

You broke my heart then
I broke your heart later.
On death's bed do we ask
why love even keeps score?

Noun, adjective and impossible to be is normal.
  It makes us hide our nervous tics and twitches.
  I have panic attacks and breakdowns and need
  pills, ***** and endless lovers to feel normal.
  I see shrinks and dealers for the drugs offered.
  I'm a one trick pony that wears out welcomes.

I knew I'd break again. It was just a matter
of time. The insane monster inside of me
drives me mad. The whole **** thing needs to be
destroyed and buried deep inside my psyche.
We all live with these beasts in our heads. It
whispers, "I don't live normal like everybody".

You bring the casket and I'll
     bring the corpse. Wear black
     and arrive drunk on love.
     We'll drive a Hearse to the
     graveyard and howl at a full
     moon until the 6 foot hole
     demands its sacrifice. We put
     her in easy and sprinkle dirt
     with a prayer and send her away.
     We finally buried the past.

I painted the beauty beyond my barred
   window. It all lived in my head anyway.
   I walked and smelled the scenes in our
   outings from the asylum I was a guest.
   Are we mad to think we exist at all?
   What god would leave so many questions?

Did paints or paintings make you mad?
The Starry Night made the moon the sun
and night the day. It was your soul on display.
You lived in that world until you couldn't.