Can you believe her? She was with me when it happened, when that perverted old man bought that chocolate bar. How do I know he’s perverted? Well he was wearing sun glasses, in a ******* Walmart at eight in the afternoon. I could tell he was looking right at my chest through those Smokey lenses. Anyways she was right there standing next to me, and she told the boss she didn’t see anything. We both knew he was wearing layers and layers of tacky bowling t shirts under his coat. What a *****!!
I’m sad to hear that honey...  What are you making for dinner?
Fred was watching the evening news on the small 16 inch Panasonic that sat on the coffee table they picked out of the neighbor’s trash. The McDonalds on sources road mysteriously caught fire earlier that morning. Black flames swallowing the restaurant and pictures of dead obese children reflecting off of his Smudged lenses, the reporters voice muffled through the television static. Fred sat there ******* on a green bottle as He crossed his legs, still wearing his blue oil stained shirt and pants ripped at the knees. While he Smiled hauntingly at his television set.
Fred was a mechanic by trade but like the average Canadian man he owned a couple vices that he kept from the world. He was avid reader, stashing shoe boxes filled with Hustlers and Penthouse magazines under the stares. He made Bird houses out of toothpicks and put together puzzles on his free time. He had a wife who worked at the mall and complained constantly, had ******* a nice *** and could sing like an angel rubbing her own ****. They lived in a single floor house in the quiet suburban jungle of Montreal; harmoniously working their dull jobs, surviving their boring and regretful lives.
Shepherd’s pie!
Would y-
Yes, yes extra cheese I got it.
It was the same thing every day; Change tires, headlights, the occasional brake job. Then drive home in his beat up old Toyota Pickup. Weave through schools of blind pedestrians, honk at aspiring race car drivers. Reverse the hunk of **** into the narrow driveway and kick the sweaty boots into the closet. Watch the world burn to ashes on the television, eat, drink and **** then off again into the night. He did this religiously but he didn’t mind his boring life all that much. Whenever he’d slide his blistered fingers across his thinning eyebrows he is reminded of what he really lives for. Whenever he sees them; the men in suits and noose cravats, he is reminded constantly throughout the day of what he lives for.
After a much needed meal and a coffee, Fred makes Unpassionate love to his wife, and waits for her to fall asleep. Staring at the ceiling while maniacally plans the rest of his night. Shirley is used to this, lack of *** drive and Insomnia was normal symptoms of depression. Little did she know he would wait every night till her tossing and turning would subside or die down. Then he would slowly crawl out of bed and tip toe down the stairs, something all too familiar to the middle aged man. He knew what floorboards creaked and how fast to swing the front door opened. He knew to release the handbrake and wheel the truck out onto the street before turning on the ignition.
Like clockwork he knew what to do, he’s been doing every night for years now and he wasn’t about to get caught. Fred drove slowly along the thin snow covered streets. The neighborhood was quiet deep into the night, not a soul outside except for the occasional midnight smoker. He made his way down the boulevard and into the intertwining back streets and parked the car far from his destination.
He had placed gas canisters in the snow around the perimeters of the closed coffee shop the night before and  As he held a book of matches tightly in his fist he made a prayer to a god he did not believe in. Fred wasn’t too sure of his motive, nor did he know his intentions, but he was well aware of what he was doing. He struck a match and watched the flame dance in the cold air before he dropped it into a trail of gasoline he poured himself. The bright fire was quiet pleasing to his squinting eyes and it grew fast. Unravelling itself as it engulfed the small building. He cracked his knuckles with the sudden bursts of satisfaction that pumped through his shivering body as he walked away from his work of art. Sat back in his truck spraying himself with the cheap cologne he’s been using for decades. He crawled back into bed with his snoring wife, tucking himself back into his dull redundant life;
Only to do it all over again tomorrow.

My heart still belongs with you
And my mind says this can't be true
Together til the end we said
Forever you were supposed to be my friend
For 2 years I thought the system did us wrong
For 2 years way to long
My brother, my friend, my hero and my protection
In a broken home you were my perfection
You saved me from myself, the demon I am within
But only to destroy me, I guess I didn't win
Forgotten and abandoned, you own my ability to trust
Long nights full of tears and regret of lust
I want to run to you and still I almost do
I need you more than you think, if you only knew
I know you think it's best for me
But I'm crying on the floor, can't you see?
I'm missing my knives more and more, but I know I've come to far
All alone here I am I'm staring at my scars
I need to feel my blades again
Because in the end they were my only friend

Should I cover up?
Should I let them be?
Should I let you see
What you've done to me?

Are you so blind?
The cuts are there.
My wrists are bare.
Do you refuse to see
What you've done to me?

Sweet baby,
split-pea soup.
croissant carbs,
sliced tomato,
onion crisp, and
spinach greens-
ooh avocado,
please!

look out the
kitchen window,
my dog's head in
the compost pit!
"LIBBBBBYY!"
homemade soup on the back-burner

******, scratch it,
there ain't even any
tomatos or onion to
throw on this french
bread!
ohh, but mama,
let's get real,
since when was
there ever any
money for all these
S.Pellegrinos!?

I'm not complaining,
and I know ain't
isn't a word,
but for Christ Sake!
Being home is always
wild.

To sit by the fire,
or to be a free-running
child?

I can't even make lunch
without getting excited,
and documenting my odd
life.

Could have made that Bumble-Bee-
solid white albacore,
or Skippy,
squeeze that Skippy-
it's the skippy you squeeze!
Figured I'd go a little
more home-made today.

How long will it be
'till Mama starts asking
for rent?

All those Doctor bills,
wild insurance-
you slay me!
Mental health,
Hunterdon and Rutland,
you really did me deep.
And to keep paying those
Doctor's with those degrees,
sheesh!

Rode my bike to the TDBank,
to take out the last of what I
had, for Mama.
Talk about hell on two wheels!

So now my choices can be narrowed-
Do I hit the restaurants and do
the night shifts, waitressing in
that filthy grease?
Do I get a portfolio and try to model,
without Mama's approval?
I sure do have one impressive
resume, but this state wants to
take my license away.

My student loans are
in over my head, here
at least there's a futon
and a warm bed.
Chicago means an air mattress and
Vegas screams something I can't really
be too sure about.

I guess it's true, home
is where the heart is.
Home is where my toes
are warm and where my lunch date,
Libby, never leaves my side.

This U-turn situation,
it's not so bad. Yeah, sure,
I was supposed to be in Utah,
canyoneering. And this New Year's,
I would have, should be, could have been
backpacking through Nepal-
a dream.
Sometime I just get a little sad.

So I'll read some books,
watch some films,
give Libby her beef-flavored
pain-killer pills,
and pray for a pretty little
white-christmas miracle.

They dont think your beautiful.
She doesnt follow the trends.
Her friends are just shadows,
nothing more then a silhouettes.
Of knives that stick lies behind her back.

She is the sun, without her
there is no image.
I am just a man,
who doesn't wanna know beauty.
Because I smile every time the sun shines
and destroys all the shadows.