This is for anyone who’s ever been loved,
Who had the balls to take a dive when push came to shove.
For every person who’s been stood up
then hit by the train of realization like one hell of an upper-cut.

This is for anyone who’s had their heart thrown out
on a roundabout by someone who had their doubts
about themselves and their own inhibitions. 

This is for anyone who’s kept their affections
hidden from inspection to keep from awkward interaction
between them and the object of their wanting.

For those who’ve stood by waiting
on a love that showed no signs of abating
because of the careless baiting
of the ones we end up hating
with everything, when they say in the end,

“Why can’t we just be friends?”

How many wounds does that leave for us to tend?
Or broken hearts that other people have to mend?
But understand, my friends, that despite what we intend,
and after all these words portend;

We’ve all been the trickster too and played pretend.

So I’m calling a guy I’ve done favors for,
now he’s not someone I really adore.
But fair is fair and I’ve done my part,
‘cept now he’s gone and made shirking an art.

Maybe he’s scared, I’d’ve given him that.
Until he went and made me his doormat.
Now that I couldn’t stand, no way,
with an excuse like something about being afraid?

See there’re people who think they know it all,
tell you all about their bad turns and downfalls.
Until they start climbing back up again
then you become some asshole who’s disrupting their zen.

When you’re down and out of luck,
They’re the people who won’t spare a buck.
You learn to see that they don’t give a damn.
The kind of people who really are shams.

Then you come to pity them.
You think about all they’ve condemned.
How much of that was a reflection of their own —
hated traits that were their’s to bemoan.

Never let yourself forget.
The hidden workings of a variable Kismet. 

The wet mop on the onyx floor,

a reservoir of soapwater.

Glanced a figure past an open door —

The wet mop on the onyx floor.

Glaciers for eyes that we adore,

Like those of our dear old mother.

The wet mop on the onyx floor,

a reservoir of soapwater.

Henry Miller once said:
“the best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature.”
So I wrote this:

I see you, in school.
Hell, everywhere.
Your damn face plastered all over facebook.

I’m drawn like a goddamn mook,
like the tide to the sky,
under siege by the gravity of the bloody moon.

The songs you sang that night took,
found some forsaken little nook
to bury their little claws on the strings that got me fooled.

All the thoughts and fictions,
those stupid contradictions,
I thought were a sign of precedence.

But were really some form of deceiving circumstance.

So these ghouls of what ifs,
Shouldn’t’ves and could’ve beens;
torture me in my unknowing of what I did wrong.

Perhaps I fanned the flames too strong?
Like some idiot playing ping-pong
in my head thinking that you might free me from this god-forsaken perdition.

Guess I was wrong.