They'll Lead You Nowhere but Jail.

She stood alone, watching closely,
quietly crying while he spent his last dime,
and planted the suitcase beneath the tree.

The sidewalk is pale and gray,
her body's cold as she's blown away.

He comes home, calls out his wife's name,
and angers, because no one came
there's this fact that he can't stand,
she died at the slight of his hand.

I Follow You on the Ground.

I felt boisterous and loud
just trying to cope with this self.

When truly I'm quiet and cautious
not beautiful or proud.
Nauseously knowing to you,
I've never existed.

My modesty makes me
like a shadow on the ground,
you'll never know I was ever around.

Panic Doesn't Speak, it Only Paints a Nightmare.

My room at the end of the hall-
painted blue and green
and with starry night dreams.

I sat at the desk in the corner,
and tried to dream of a future,
the still framed picture
which is no longer framed.

I was hidden away, stowed away
in my room at the end of the hall,
and the bed by the door never did
comfort me.

I want to destroy those walls
and rip them down
in a bare handed breakdown,
because a new coat of paint
isn't enough to remove the memory.

My room at the end of the hall,
is it still even a safe place at all?

You'll Never Feel the Way I Do, it's Not Possible.

Loneliness is a ride very few care to take,
it's a humble thing knowing that's who you are.

It's like a broken record,
repeating that thought over and over
until you're worn out,
and with all the feelings you must set aside
regardless their affection on your mood.

Tossing and turning all night,
shaking with every bit of energy in my body.
At times I wonder if it'll ever be possible to let go
of an old heart heavy as a cannon ball.

As if it wasn't already tiring, wrenching me,
I'll always be defected, it's something I've accepted.

Eagerness Turns to Isolation

You know your word
is an eager thing.

It can steal your pride,
touch your soul,
or even swallow you whole.

So speech is a powerful action
acting on it's own.

Sp me be aware of the way
you portray your words to me
or yours might swallow you.

Finally Finding Peace

If warmth can't be too warm
why is yours always burning me?

The grace you show so clearly
only gratifies yourself,
and all the pride
you've set aside
is the hallow thing I see.

Sunlight streaming through the window
is solace blinding me.

There is No Silence in the City.

I remembered the ghost
of the house again,
and how I was just a child then.

Although as an adult all I hear is
crickets and traffic
and screaming cicadas.

Cicadas so loud
they make your head pound.

The city is a severe place
when all the sirens sound.

With winters full of sickly snow
how any heart could have time to grow
is something I'll never know.

Memories of the unknown, spells where I can't stop shaking.

Recovery is cold-
recovery is regaining control
of a mental state torn from me
so long ago.

Getting anyone
to understand your issue
is hopeless
because no one ever will.

It's impossible,
no one can comprehend
bouts when reality is slipping
right through your fingertips,
and your hands
just aren't strong enough
to grasp and pull it back.

Control is a struggle
and something I'm lacking.
Control is a measurement
in which I need to comply.

Dewbie, You're a Dog.

I stood, bare feet
on the concrete.

Rain pouring down
gently, as I frown

at the dog searching
for the wet creature
that ran under the fence

and out of the yard.

Suppose the dog's life
must really be hard.

There's No Crowd.

I wish I had the words
to explain how mine fall,
tending to slip into some
imaginary black hole.

All importance aside,
these words would still
never steal an ear
and the audience
was never interested.

They decided to leave me
listless on stage,
speaking to empty chairs.