You've planted a ***** seed in me.
It has reduced my heart's capacity
and the way I've found these words
has become a blur.

These spastic spasm fits of venting
are a waste of human space.
So come on, baby- take a listen.
Fill your head with noise pollution
to float on your merry way.

I'm adjusting to a new found wisdom:
a way to **** this frequent nuisance.
By the way, didn't anyone tell you?
We're running out of time.

This is a constant double-standard battle.
and don't you love the way I dabble?
This is a free-for-all that I'm claiming.
Now it's mine.

i've got weekend friends
all throughout the week.
each doing their part in numbing me.
but, the simple thought of a tragedy
can set me off like you won't believe.
and then i'm gone,
but not back home.
to a place i'm building out of fear
that i'm not going anywhere but here.
but, if i'm gone,
then so are you.
i'm a weekend friend
is that all i am?
'cause if that's true,
i'm so over you.
and if i'm gone,
then so are you.
i'm a weekend friend-
yeah, you're right, it's true.
i'm old on me and i'm over you.
i'm a weekend friend,
but so are you.
we're weekend friends,
i'll be there, won't you?

I've got a heavy head tonight.
This time it isn't pride inside.
It's filling up with anxious thoughts,
the root of which has long been lost.
I feel like I gave up my grip.
I'm struggling to steer this ship.

There's a hole where water is leaking in,
but I've been keeping it a secret.
I'll flood this slow with my own sin.
As Captain, I'll go down with it.

The jetstream-cut clouds we see-
atop twisted trees and sympathy
when the sun gets low speaks to me.

I'm taken back by the beauty
when the stars awake and start to hang down.
The clarity of its being is a distraction
to the things that we think matter.

The sand and the view
and the things that we do
for the shine of all of its glory-
is subsequent to the things that we feel
and the plans that are piecing our stories.

Fill the void of life with me and this and that and this.
Please cherish the thought of a blessed place:
the place where we exist.

There's a fifteen-minute round-trip
that could save me from this night
and, oh, my stride is glorified
from things that you can't see.
It's a subtle form of gratitude
that I'm reaping without thanks.
But, I'm grateful.
I know I'm grateful.

There's a fifteen minute round-trip
that could save me from this night.
It's glorified by cans you can't crush
and bottles at my side.
It's a blatant form of envy
that you're reaching for at lengths.
But, I don't care.
I know I don't care.

I said, "It's all in my hands.
I don't care if you like it."
You're suffering from feeling different.
You're a dying pilot in a pilot's cockpit.

"And if this is the end of
things we began, then
I'll embrace it automatic
and lets those ******* ******* have it again."

Say it.
Say that it's good.
Tell me something sure;
a promise for just anything.

Say it.
Say that it's good.
So while we roll around,
we won't feel the thought of being useless.

Say it.
Say that it's good.

I'm pulling skin through my hair
and chewing down my nails
in disgust.
"This is a collections agency in an attempt to..."
Recorded words are always chosen so perfectly;
"an attempt" is right-
and a ****-poor one at that.
"O' conglomerate!
I've got your answers right here."
I've been walking around headless
on the shiny dime of the state
and I wouldn't have it any other way.
"Everybody needs more money." I say,
"And I sure as **** need it more than you do."
Get going.
Get lost.
Get headless if you must.