Yet another sleepless night,
Cold in my bed clutching a pillow.
Loveless to say the least I'm
Drowning in an ocean of blankets.
If I had a phone would it be off the hook?
Or would I be intently watching it, waiting
Wasting my time just to hear it ring and
Hearing a soft voice when I put it to my ear?
Cautious arrivals.
My shoes are under my bed,
To keep the nightmares
From walking over the glass.
I realize now that
It's not my dreams that need catching.
It's not what's out there that I fear
It's what's haunting me deep in my bones.
Hang me out to dry and don't
Sing me any songs tonight
Sweet dreams, carry me
Until I wake into the morning light.
I'm tired of metaphorically putting that gun to my head
I'm tired of threatening to pull that trigger right in front of you.
In the downpour
You can't tell the difference between
Tears and the rain
Except by distinguishing the taste of it.
I'm not responsible
For what happens in my lack of decision
Making states of mind
Blame it all on the taste of the red wine.
I haven't an angel to hold me up.
I haven't anything.
How did I become so predictable?
Save me? Darling...
The tears in your dress
And the markings on your back
So familiar to me and so
Untold to falling stories down
To the bottom of the darkest depth.
Don't wake me up.
The earth is the same as the hell that you fail
To save me from.
Nothing else on this side of the river means a thing.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Rain.
All of the sounds of the world have diminished to a whisper. Summers are just as cold as winters as far as my heart is concerned. I'm sitting on the porch, soaked to the bone from April rainwater, listening to the thunder and watching for streaks in the sky and all that I want is for something to define the moment. I'm shaking in my clothes yet I refuse to go inside. I'm waiting for something or someone to come bursting out of the sky.
Such a miraculous thing, but I'm drawing up conclusions and placing my hope in places that it doesn't belong. I am vulnerable. I am frightened. And as my body fights with all it has to keep this cold away, I feel nothing. I am nothing.
So I put my hands in my pockets, hoping that this will temporarily keep my hands a little warmer and I find a folded up note that I had written for a love-interest. It soaked though. None of the words on it are distinguishable anymore and my hands are all black and blue. Great.
It pours down harder. I'm a few steps away from the door but still I refuse.
I pull out a box of cigarettes and try to light one up with my back to the rain. Success, but it doesn't last long. Holding the soaken cigarette between my fingers I realize this is a metaphor for myself, and I look at it for a while before walking out to the road and throwing it into the street. I walk back, I sit down. I give up.
I give up. I fucking give up!
So I lay flat on my back and look up to the black clouds. There's no hope in finding what I'm looking for so I lay on my back and just accept death as it pours down on me. If I survive this flood, I'll still be left with lungs full of water. Pneumoniatic. Wheezing when I breathe, hardly able to contain the oxygen that I inhale.
If the sun breaks through, I'm already diseased. There is an expiration date on me, and it's a lot sooner than most of you. Because I put myself out there in the cold and found nothing but disease. I found nothing but emptiness.
Such a miraculous thing, but I'm drawing up conclusions and placing my hope in places that it doesn't belong. I am vulnerable. I am frightened. And as my body fights with all it has to keep this cold away, I feel nothing. I am nothing.
So I put my hands in my pockets, hoping that this will temporarily keep my hands a little warmer and I find a folded up note that I had written for a love-interest. It soaked though. None of the words on it are distinguishable anymore and my hands are all black and blue. Great.
It pours down harder. I'm a few steps away from the door but still I refuse.
I pull out a box of cigarettes and try to light one up with my back to the rain. Success, but it doesn't last long. Holding the soaken cigarette between my fingers I realize this is a metaphor for myself, and I look at it for a while before walking out to the road and throwing it into the street. I walk back, I sit down. I give up.
I give up. I fucking give up!
So I lay flat on my back and look up to the black clouds. There's no hope in finding what I'm looking for so I lay on my back and just accept death as it pours down on me. If I survive this flood, I'll still be left with lungs full of water. Pneumoniatic. Wheezing when I breathe, hardly able to contain the oxygen that I inhale.
If the sun breaks through, I'm already diseased. There is an expiration date on me, and it's a lot sooner than most of you. Because I put myself out there in the cold and found nothing but disease. I found nothing but emptiness.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Four hundred and twelve.
Where is home? I've forgotten.
I live my life from day to day,
From beaten street to street.
All of the street signs in the
World couldn't make me feel less
Lost.
All of the bridges across these rivers
Changing and aging just as quickly as I am.
All of these houses that are all along
These avenues painted with street lamps can't
Make me feel any more warm than I am,
Shaking in my shoes, forking up a couple bucks
To take the bus to the other side of town:
A place to sleep, an all night diner and a cup of coffee.
I stop by the post office to drop off a letter for my folks:
I'm doing well in the big city, mother. I've got a good job.
I'm making my bills on time. I wash my clothes every few days.
But in reality, I'm really not. I make my way around this town
By playing the blues on streets with so much pain in my voice,
I make a few bucks singing to strangers about how hard it is to
Live my life in the city when I'm so used to singing about the
Small town blues and just wanting to escape and find myself there
In the city: where there are millions of people but none of them
Not a single solitary one of them is me.
I live my life from day to day,
From beaten street to street.
All of the street signs in the
World couldn't make me feel less
Lost.
All of the bridges across these rivers
Changing and aging just as quickly as I am.
All of these houses that are all along
These avenues painted with street lamps can't
Make me feel any more warm than I am,
Shaking in my shoes, forking up a couple bucks
To take the bus to the other side of town:
A place to sleep, an all night diner and a cup of coffee.
I stop by the post office to drop off a letter for my folks:
I'm doing well in the big city, mother. I've got a good job.
I'm making my bills on time. I wash my clothes every few days.
But in reality, I'm really not. I make my way around this town
By playing the blues on streets with so much pain in my voice,
I make a few bucks singing to strangers about how hard it is to
Live my life in the city when I'm so used to singing about the
Small town blues and just wanting to escape and find myself there
In the city: where there are millions of people but none of them
Not a single solitary one of them is me.
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