It used to make me bitter when I’d wake and think about her.
I used to smoke myself to sleep and drown myself in liquor.
I used to fall for so much shit. I used to be naive.
All because I loved someone that never could love me.

I used to feel so worthless, like my last name was Wrong.
I wrote so many poems and composed so many songs,
that the effect was dulled, machete turned to butter knife
Is that all I’d ever be?  Is this my entire life?


I am not the person that I was back then at all. 
And even when I tried to slip, I couldn’t seem to fall.
My skin has grown another skin and no matter what I say
I can’t become the thing I was, when it’s that far away.

And I refuse to be that anyway.


I refuse to be that

  • Paint A Perfect Picture, But Leave It White

This is where I live, but this town is not my home
Just a massive, hollow hole that I throw bullshit into
From the dust, now asbestos, it’s probably best if I just move.

But I have thirty-two cents to my god damn name,
and I’m not sensible enough to change anything.
Because I’m not yet ready to fork over my dreams
and eat from a silver spoon.

In this town, there’s too much room for mediocrity.
Too much room for it all to get to me
and it always does.

But, lately I’ve been on this drug
and it keeps me sober and it makes me numb.
And it’s called nostalgia.  It’s called, “So long.”
You can call it anything you want,
but don’t you dare call it home….because it’s not.

If you throw a dog a bone, and then slap him in the nose,
pry the teeth from his mouth, leaving canines alone
Giving him a solid impression of what a wolf he once was
just a sad, old dog with his paws in the mud
and a mouthful of blood

because someone screamed, “Fetch!”

That’s what this place is to me.
It takes the words out of my mouth and replaces them with a mouth full of cavities
It takes a local music scene and turns the kids, from it, to junkies.
It takes everything I have to keep myself composed
but everyone in this fucking place knows

how good we used to have it, and that we might not ever have. 

The Straightish & Narrower

Disastrous intent
and bending like a spoon.
Silver moon. Stale bread.

The tides of her eyes do crest, as pupils shine.
They scream out loud, "I’m still alive."

But after, the master calls her men!
At three inches in; sore womb.
Bruised skin.

An instrumental tune. A poem ended soon,
and a guy that wastes entire years
writing in his room.

Cadaver, not right now,
though soon.


Cracks in the pavement, grass still grows anyway.
Any way you step, I’ll be in the way;
take root in the lung.
Planted on a tongue,
Open up my mouth
Had nothing to say.

What do you do when your heroes are dead,
but you’re still awake?
Is it wrong if they were only wrong
in the right place?

Does the guilt go away?