Stayed up all night trying to write
I still can’t get you out of my head
Sleep didn’t come easy this night
Giving anything to only go to bed
The clock ticks past two & three
Knowing there’s nothing I’m going to find
Off dreaming of nothing, where I want to be
Another scotch to still my racing mind
Trying to overcome an existential crisis Harking back to those foundational years Emerging out of my own wounded shadow Striving headlong into those ancient fears
Transitionally limping along these days But my injuries aren’t those to be seen Nor the stretch marks upon my soul Yearning for the notion of becoming clean
Throughout it all, forever fond of the Blonde Woman, hold me close to your breast Tell me this life is going to be all right That together, entangled; we’ll always be blessed
Junky little notes Throwaway lines on the postmodern stage Cultural fragmentation in empty streets Truth whittled away on an evaporating page
The disillusionment of an appropriated life While the world’s on fire; downright ablaze The American Dream sold off to the lowest bidder Feeling dissociative in these recent raucous days
Our dishonest & unaccountable government Are trying to sell you their uninspired vision Trying to sway your vote by gripping your throat But their cockamamy pleas will be met with only derision
Knowing there’s life out there
Between the barren branches
Tying your coat a little tighter
To fend off the avalanches
Winter will try to kill you
You must fight to see the Spring
Warm each other under sheets
Flip over & let me do my thing
I think you have the wrong notion of me
I could be wrong, but it’s what I believe
I’m neither the saint nor the villain
In which your notions are trying to achieve
I’m not nearly as arrogant as I portray
That’s merely the manifestation of a fictional role
I know confidence is sexy & I’m trying my best
But I have doubts regarding the quality of the contents of my soul
Headed downtown for the literary type Searching for the scribes of our weary day To heal my heart with words that matter I’ve tried, but I don’t see any other way
Falling stars may not mean much to you But I’m here without any expectation or hope Where do we find our reasons for love Even we can kill our dreams, given enough rope
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing I’m just trying to feel my way through This existence offers many pitfalls Working within our struggles, those Blues There’s only one way to survive here You’ve got to continue to fight your urges Finding the right path to paradise Piecing together words to sing the dirty dirges
“Even his fucking was binary, a sorting process by which certain practices could be tried and found wanting or approved and accorded benchmark status.”