My friend is coming today.
No—my friend is coming tomorrow.
My daddy says so.

Dad says the house must be clean,
or my friend can’t come.
He is coming tomorrow—he really is.

The vacuum only holds so much.
I work all day.
My friend is coming today.
No—my friend is coming tomorrow.
My daddy says so.

But it’s not clean.
I sweep and sweep—maybe I weep.
The tears stain. It’s not clean.

My friend is coming today.
No—my friend is coming tomorrow.
My daddy says so.
As soon as it’s clean.

I put my toys away.
I stack and stack,
boxed and neat.
But I imagine a game.
I play alone—still make a stain.

My friend is coming today.
No—my friend is coming tomorrow.
My daddy says so.
As soon as it’s clean.
Yet I’m still playing alone

Some say hell is other people—
they have met their fathers.
Some say hell is being alone—
they live as me.
Some say there is no hell—
what sheltered lives they have led;
I envy them.
Some say the world is hell—
how I pity them.

Some go looking for hell—
are they really that lost?
Some are born into hell—
welcome to the modern world.
Where is your angel?
Isaiah—Not Market Viable.
Our Bible is copyrightable.
Serpent, Demon, be the poet.

Let’s crucify the poet,
I’m not looking for Jesus.
He has no profit, perhaps,
The prophet forgot to only prophesy profit.
Prophecy of the profit poet is dead.
Some say he is in hell so dream another dream

The lights i live by Are not disco lights
They go red , amber,green
Red man , green man
Does movement or stop
Fill my crippled paper cup
I like the light it crackals
But I live by is darker
Lives beneath my skin
Were I am dead
Maybe one day
It will be my disco
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Do you have 50p
Really i need 20

For those who can’t face today but still long to see tomorrow, ****** offers a warmth that feels like hope—a hope that never arrives. A wingless, voiceless Gabriel, can’t promise solace only lead leaving at roadside, blind to the other sun. Their false dawn was beautiful,The arch-addict Michael, fallen in his original sin, trading his sword for the syringe. The internal demon is the price many pay for fighting their devil. And as they slip into that false dawn, some are left to wonder: Is it strength, or surrender? It’s nice to think, That could never be me.
Oh how little faith u have This is you for a few missed steps You for that truma, but it’s ok u can see the sun . Is it the dawn , or the dusk. Bright or the dark. Harder to see on the choppy sea. My dreams use to reflect on the still water