Dead Ends

I want to go new places
But I’m afraid of how to get there
I want to meet new people
But they’re something to beware
I want to make connections
But strings are better cut
I want to talk to you again
But if I do, then what?


Well I can disapprove
But what’s that mean to you?
We both will never move
So what then can I do?
I bite my tongue and let your voice
Become the leader in our chorus
Pretending that I have no choice
Knowing that it’s all an ouroboros.


There’s a part of me that hates the lie
When I am told to be myself;
I’ve felt pieces of me die
To preserve another’s sense of self.

Yet who is there to blame, but I
Who made the choice to hold my tongue
And not to let the thing untie,
Lest I make another come undone?

Better that I rage and sigh
In quiet places no one sees,
And let that part that hates the lie
Find truth in tending others’ needs.


Is it the goal of our lives?
Ever seeking reaction —
Never an act,
Never a leap,
Never an ounce of passion:
Just an inspiration
Of color in others’ faces,
Feeling in their eyes;
Nevermind if that feeling
Is what calls when love dies.

Stepping Stones to Nowhere

I am to you what you were to me:
A means, never an end
There are worse things that I could be
But that’s a poor excuse to be friends
I still wonder if you think of me
A tired thought, so oft repeated
And if we’re warned off who we want to be
It doesn’t matter who we needed
Friendship is no reliable thing
And more, is even less
So if I’m not ready for anything
What I’m doing here I cannot guess


There is shelter in the hours
The small ones in the morning
They hide me with their powers
From the watching and the warring

There is nothing to induce me
To cast off their kindly cloak
All that is awaiting
Is a wish I never woke.


I could call upon the storm:
The wind, the piercing rain.
I could make a whirlwind form,
But I would do it all in vain.

I could call upon the sky:
Watch the flash as thunder plays.
I could raise the waters forest high;
But I couldn’t turn back all the days.

I can’t call upon the clock
To hide its face and yours;
Moments pass, each with a lock,
To shut all open doors.

And I could call upon your name
As a plea or as a chant for war,
But there’s nothing there for me to claim
Except a broken heart forevermore.

The Art of Being More Social

I’m supposed to make an effort
Be friendly, it’s just fine
How dandy for the experts
I couldn’t trust a cup of wine

I’m supposed to make an effort
Accept mistakes, cast out a line
Trust that life won’t leave you desert
In the end it will just leave you brine

I’m not supposed to make an effort
People use each other all the time
And that doesn’t give much comfort
But what if comfort’s only lying?