I am the bad                                                                           you are the good
the sad                                                                                                 the happy
the angry                                                                                            the mellow
I see half-empty                                                                        you see half-full
                                      but we get along because
I have a piece of good                                                   you have a piece of bad
a piece of happy                                                                              a piece of sad
a piece of mellow                                                                        a piece of angry
a sight of half-full                                                               a sight of half-empty
a little of you                                                                                      a little of me

I'll grab the year by its ******* nostrils
drag it through a mirth-soaked Autumn.
I smell another couch-bound month,
          so I'm churching up November nights
          with chips on sour luck

"Who're you to judge?"
Well, I'm the ****** with the gavel
                                          in my hand
and a burning, short fuse in each eye
And I'm sentencing this lengthy Fall
to muster up some wherewithal;
to keep me off the ******* pile of scraps
                                         'til next Spring.

Make this the Year of the Dog
                                     if you must
but understand I'm not a lamb
or a lion or an ox;
I'm a windy, cloudy Saturday,--
a kid from out Wyoming way--
The only guess I've got is
keeping still means getting lost

I'll grab the year by its ******* collar
shake until it bleeds the future.
Drag it out--I'm gonna drag it out
toss it on the pile of burning years
                                 to light my face.

Keeping still means getting lost.
Burning years'll light my way.

I thought differently,
—Much differently of you.
You turned out to be the same,
As they all do.

instead of the thrumming of crickets
cockroaches
and the constant lull of the frogs by the lake

instead of late-night parties on the other side of the wall (didn't they know we were always in bed by 10:30?)
the drunken laughter of strangers
the foreign tongue that made its way into the dialogue of my dreams

instead of keeping myself up at night from the terror of
wondering what poverty-stricken, starved man might break through our poorly-fitted door to violate two helpless girls

my lullaby is the hum of a dishwasher
the creaks in the finely-polished floorboards
the purr of the computer
the cracking of ice as it slides from the dispenser in the fridge
a symphony of first-world luxury and comfort

i am up at 1:45 in the morning

and i couldn't be happier

we are so different
different beliefs
different hopes
different dreams

but somehow
someway

things feel right
like a key in a lock
like a vow in a prayer

like a fish on a dock
like a lie in a swear

that is until
our differences
become too different