subjective

poems are great.
they're just so subjective.
you can't ask me questions.
and i go on my way.

poems are great.
they keep people guessing.
they can't tell what you're saying.
but the words sounded nice.

poems are great.
you write some emotions.
you say that you feel them.
and so, now, you do.

poems are great.
they blind you. they trick you.
they're the best way i know of.
to lie to myself.

this is such a good grammatical perspective...

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/04/alot-is-better-than-you-at-everything.html

also, it really made my day :)

last Tuesday

ok, so you think you have me figured out?
[mmhmm. that was last week.]

see, my heart tends to change like the tides or the wind
[you of all people should know that by now.]

you're being evasive and shifting and vague
[gosh, cut the crap, man, it's driving me crazy.]

i'll love you forever
[just not like last Tuesday.]

sea green, revised

i'm asking for wisdom
- for you know the waters
- for you hold the ocean
- for you calm the sea

sea green

the wave sucked me under
and whirled me around
and held me captive
and wouldn't let go
the wave left me fightened
and helpless
and injured
and i vowed not to wade past my ankles again

but now here i am
the sea crashing
and foaming
i'm running to meet it
and diving beneath it
i'm asking to get snatched up
and touseled
and hurt
i'm throwing my heart out
to be tossed by the sea


...why am i doing this, exactly?

charismatic

it's a thick and solid, cold glass shell
you build around yourself
it seems a little threatening
but i see right through it

you're like a fish in a fishbowl in that cold, glass shell
stuck swimming in circles with nowhere to go
there's a heart in there and there's lots of stuff in it
it's caring and loyal and funny and fun
it's just trapped in that fishbowl with no pathway out

see, one day someone's going to take a big, steel pick
and start hacking away at that cold, glass shell
- in fact, i think somebody already did -
and the water will slowly start trickling out
and that unyielding face that you show to the world
might have to show the something
it's afraid of

the humor won't help
the sarcasm will hurt
the silence won't heal

a Byronic hero can cry, you know.

[abstract]

We're watching a movie; it's late Friday night
You're cold and you're cautious and sort of uptight
Can't you look at me once? Fake a sad sort of smile?
Say, "I know, babe, I just haven't slept in a while."