I’ll make it perhaps

The light in here is bad

The shadows hang their heads

I’m tired of this playlist

I’m tired of this bed

In sheets that are not mine

Busted strings don’t pass the time

The shadows hang their heads

In light of what they find

Am I really headed backwards?

Static fills my head

Am I really headed back there

Like I’m the walking dead

So I light the wick

And turn the page

Familiar is this pain

The light in here is fine

The shadows are just that

Perhaps I’m feeling better

Perhaps I’m coming back

Always and forever

Never fine

But

I’ll make it perhaps

I’d rather be shot dead.

I need someone

with gun in hand

cocked cold and ready

against my head

perhaps then

I’d have the reason

to finish this all red eh

I’ve lost interest

with no six gauge to my chest

fire crackers maybe

I’ve the strength to digest

Hell who am I kidding

I’m no good at roulette

but to settle for less, no

I’d rather be shot dead.

VHS

A boy, four walls, a television set

what else more can one expect

a restless head, and evenings spent

on worthless puzzles, and VHS

tapes I watched, rewound and played

late past midnight, mornings, days

in a vault of body, mind

all to merely pass the time,

how good it felt, at that first glance

to fade into title sequence

and what a time it was to be

by oneself in harmony

caricatures care not to judge,

or fight, or fuss, nor try to budge

a troubled boy in troubled times

when credits roll, press rewind

rewind…

rewind..

rewind.

If, but there is no if

I, but there is no I

Could, but there is no could

Go, but there is no go

Back, but there is no back

I think

I would

press

Eject

there is war in my heart

There’s a war in my heart

a war in my head

at night as I sleep

at war

in the bed

I’ve made

like the maid

towel swan, chocolates

convincing myself

that this war, it could end

if I only fought, as hard as my bite

perhaps than I could

sleep through the night

with or without, this war in my head

there is war in my heart

that will burn till I’m dead.

We’ve all got our own way of getting out.

It’s difficult to get out sometimes.

Like clawing at the walls of a well.

Fighting because you’re up there and I’m down here.

And even though you throw me many ropes,

they’re all covered in shit and slime.

My hands clench tightly, fingers ooze with stank

only to slide back down.

I stew in a bed of roses for a while,

picking at the petals one by one.

Then we’re back at it, ropes covered in roses, shit and slime.

I sort of use the slack from the rope to heave myself,

slowly from slime covered stone to stone,

eventually making my way out.

Only to find you sleeping next to a tree.

The rope tied tight around it’s base.

And I watch your eyes dance under your eyelids.

I’m in awe of your use of knots,

your ability to sleep so sound.

So I sit a while, next to you, and it’s peaceful there.

We’ve all got our own way of getting out.