Every day I walk to the end of the street,
wondering which way I'll go.
I see lights;
they have my retreat;
now it's always, right.
I've since moved to a place with a longer path to Out,
and now I walk to a sign that says, DON'T PASS.
They say I'm depressed.
I say, You think I like the taste of grit in my mouth?
while thinking, I'll show her everything I have,
I guess I haven't lost;
I'm just learning over again.
I got no problems but the ones I create;
but I want, so I got quite a few
...in the times in which I show
the lesser limit of 'Get by.'
...It's not that I lie.
There's nothin' in my life worth lying 'bout
in what seems that infinite period of time
with an absence of ideas before the openings of mouths,
as I stand bare as though wearing a sandwich board of faults
—if you will,
as 'I won't' soon follows
...and my body slips then sets at the news.
I know of this life;
I've lived it before.
It's between is and should be,
commercial and off,
perfection and now,
tomorrow and another wait.
It's where ignorance is bliss bar revelation,
where a good ear won't get you heard,
where a foul harm in the continuance of has been,
because of what has happened since I thought such things;
...where they all walk on eggshells so's not to be better people.
Well, I've a sheltered refusal for the perpetuation of that,
and I can't lie and say I didn't
and persuade myself to different
in a nearly unintelligible mixture of
Between 'Yeah, I will"s and 'Got it"s.
You choose with whom you share yourself,
and to what extent.
And in these ceaseless hours of dwindled sleep,
Would you rather a memory of the greatest experiences
or to be able to experience anything else?
Don't figure it out while crossing the street.