Sometimes, I cry
Like happiness is a miracle I can't be a part of
OH MY GOD
IT'S RAINING PEANUTbu*tER SANDWICHES
But I have to stay inside...
Because I'm allergic to nuts
And our heroes had guts but no glory
And there's a story behind every kind of question, like
Where are we going?
What have we seen?
We spend our lives like quarters at some slot machine,
gambling away all the things we could've been
Trying to line up all those pieces of fruit to win some sort of jackpot
because it's easier to risk everything for anything when nothing's all you got, and yes
There have been those who sat watching their greatest joys slink away like toys they've outgrown
And there have been those who've learned how to put slinkies on escalators and call this life their own.
There have been those who have grown to feel as useless as...
As useless as a pair of scissors in the hands of an agnostic with no fingers
who was asked to cut thousands of paper snowflakes for a 6th grade production of a nativity play at an old atheist high school
But all of us studied the religion of ice cubes, wanting to be disciples of cool
So we gave black cats the right of way
And learned to pray for those send over seas brandishing brutality like a brush,
threatening to paint the town red.
Because there have been those who went looking for God,
but found religion instead.
So some of them came home in body bags.
And others traded their dog tags for wheelchairs
and the "What was I thinking?" montre of Gods.
And still others are starting to see the similarities between coffins and escape pods
We have carried grief
We have carried grief as far as a bustank full of tears would allow,
and we know now that we build our hearts like bus stops
We spend our lives in woodshops using oak to make a perfect pair of feet for any occasion,
we have to put our best foot forward
Stepping toward another life
Another choice, another goal
and if
"Eyes are windows to the soul"
Then we should riot throwing rocks through them all
Until everyone is free from their body and the billion dollar industry that kept us ugly.
Because most of us just up and quit.
Like we couldn't do it, like
in a world of 6 billion people we couldn't find 1 person
that might help us get through it,
and we just shake our heads
Like the fault lies with how we were raised, but we're too young to be praised
We're too tarnished to be great.
Raised by relatives who loved us, and we still can't relate.
Cause they taught us love.
So we tried
We tried booking pa**age through life on relationships,
anchoring ourselves to the hips of another hoping to make it to dry land
Paying for that pa**age by holding our hearts in our hands
and there have been those
who learned how to sing the cuckold song,
because we think we thought we knew them better,
and maybe we were wrong.
They wanted someone strong, and left when they realised
we were the strong silent types.
And they failed to realize we keep hurricanes in our windpipes for any occasion,
We must
Cry out
We must
Speak up
As those who've hurt us forge their hands into a beggars cups
while we're wandering, wondering what it is to them that we meant?
Giving a penny for their thoughts, because their love isn't worth a cent.
But that's just the venom talking.
That's just us walking it off.
That's the cough and the rattle, before we dust ourselves off and pull ourselves back in the saddle
to ride into the sunset, alone, this time.
But still looking
Looking for someone to help us go that last mile
Someone with a smile like a finish line that'll tell us "We made it this time"
And maybe that's all we are
Seperate dreams, growing into one another
Maybe the mouth of a lover can kiss the hurt away and not say anything
while we sing ourselves back into eachother, like
Lullabies.
Making our eyes clamp shut, like bear traps around the ankles of sweet dreams.
Maybe we're old variations on new themes
The streams of consciousness running to an ocean of understanding where we're handing ourselves apologies to pit against our regret.
Trying to teach ourselves to be happy with what we've got, because maybe this is all we get.
And sure,
there have been those
who were asked to be amazing at something they had no gift for.
And there have been those who were magnificent at something they'll never have a chance to prove
And in their way, what they were practicing, was loneliness
Which we all practice.
But oddly, none of us will ever grow graceful in.
So sometimes..
We cry.