11.89

My newfound inspiration
You're made of the same things
That good dreams are, darling.
I sleep well when you're here,
Walking around inside of my
Subconsciousness like you own
The place. Making me feel all
Sorts of warm in a cold world.

You're such a wonderful thing.
My only wish is that somehow I can make you feel
The way that you make me feel.
So that you can know just exactly how you bless me.

I want to twirl your hair in my fingertips
Get lost in your eyes (don't lose me).

Hands.

Why do I feel like a ghost?
Why do I feel like nothing I do
Makes a difference in the lives
Of the people who mean the most?
I'm buying them quick fixes and
Offering my priceless advice but
Nothing is ever kinetic. Nothing
Seems to change anymore these days.

I want to save you all from being
Afraid. From being held down.
I want to give you all my courage
And make fear a thing of the past.

You'll have the heart of a child if you
Stand by my side and never back down but
The company that you make will be what
Leaves you undone. You'll be just as lost
As I used to be. And I'm so scared that
When this happens I will have let you down
All you want is to find your way home and
Now that I've built mine with my bare hands
In the middle of nowhere, lost but aware I
Just want you to know that I'm here. I care.

So throw your heart in the wrong directions
Watch it crumble and break, weather away.
And if you get caught in the pouring rain know
That I'll always be here to hold you up.

All of you.
I love you.

(For the world... someday I will make a difference.)
The highway is long and it never ends, but I've seen every mile and I know where they go.

Pins and needles.

Feel the faint sensation in your fingertips.
You're beginning to breathe a little more steady.
From the top of this building get a birds-eye view.
It's so obscure. It's so misleading. Beautiful.

The sunlight hits the streets and the sidewalks,
Working its way effortlessly around whatever stop it.
I wish that I could be a little more like that.
Someday I will rival the sun in ambition and ego.

Someday every magazine will want to do a piece on me,
And every scientist in the world will want to dissect me,
And every critic in the world will want to bad-mouth me,
But I will be... Oh, I will be immortal.

But first I need to gather myself together;
Take control of my body, my soul and my mind.
Wash the bedsheets after my lustful nights
And leave the distilled happiness behind me.
Because it's not what they have made me, no.
It's what they've done and what they've broken.
I'm much better than the excuses that I make
But I can't seem to be mature enough to take the blame.

Someday I'll be on my feet, not in a bed.
Someday I'll look forward to what my day brings.
And someday I'll be in love like all of you.
Someday I won't have to live in burning envy.

My limbs are starting to wake up.

A metaphor for a pathological liar.

I take a glass of water and sip from it.
It's nothing special so I tear open a pack of sugar
And I dump it in. It all falls to the bottom and
I take a spoon and stir it in, and then
I take another sip. It still tastes plain
It's still nothing special so I tear open another
And I dump it in, let it settle and then stir.
Expecting different results this time but nothing...

Repeating, repeating, repeating...
Nothing seems to be good enough for me.
It's all bullshit and no truth.
And I'm pouring in lies... excuses.

Eventually it gets to the point
where the sugar is more abundant than the water.
Suddenly what's honest is overrun with sweetness.
Suddenly the truth hardly exists

Between grains... being held in and sticky.
Disgusting. It dries my throat.
I can't say that I want this anymore
But it's a little too late to decide now.

So I dump it in the sink.
All that truth is wasted.
And I start all over again.
And it's not long before I

Start tearing up packets of sugar again.

Returning empty handed.

I can't get over the way that my room smells like gasoline. I live in it. I sleep in it. I have a constant fear of lighting up a cigarette, only to see my entire life turn to ashes. I don't get out much. If I did, maybe I wouldn't care as much. For years I was never home. My bed stayed made, my clothes neatly folded and the posters and my writing on the wall just hung there unloved and unappreciated.

I'm out finding love. I'm out finding myself.

But then I return empty handed. My clothes are soaked and my shoes are worn in the soles. That familiar smell of gasoline returns. It makes me cough in my sleep. It brings fear again. Why am I here? For what purpose? I'm back to my roots but they're unaccepting of who I am.

Pete Townshend is on my wall telling me to leave. Trent Reznor. Bob Dylan. Eric "Slowhand" Clapton is asking me what happened to my guitar. I tell him "It got hit by a car when I left in in the street in New York city." But I'm making excuses.

I gave up the things that I love just to go out and make a name for myself. I don't even care anymore. I don't want to be some rock star. I don't want to be some writer. I have no goals, only questions. I need to find myself. But instead of going after what I know I love, I instead chase a dream. I chase something, someone that I could POSSIBLY love but don't in the moment. And what do I do in defeat?

I retreat. To a fucking bedroom with imaginary friends that could set ablaze at any moment. My life would be nothing. More nothing than it already is. And those posters that are on my walls are calling me crazy, because they are damned to live on my walls or to be taken down and thrown away. I'm just like them: Two-dimensional and just as disposable.

Deep inside of me I know what I want to do: Change the world. The problem is, I don't know how I'm going to do it.