stuck on a high i cant get out of,
and everyone has left
like the smoke out my window
and i've got bleary days
where i might try
but all the hope
is wearing thin

i'm fastened like a picket fence
seperating houses
in a smoggy suburb
it is a good day to be grey
it is finally silent
and the clouds have stopped moving
there are broken peanut shells
all over the floor
and i dont know what to do about them.
i suppose they should sit there.
but then i cannot step lest my feet parch
and they still sing, sing,
those birds, with nothing better to do
like me.
i'm just a picket fence,
falling over
and rotten
with moisture
the clouds will not
leave me alone
i suppose
i'll have to make due.
somehow.
there are empty tissue boxes
and old books of poetry,
with poetry i hate
and a memory i hate
to remember, all day

i wake up before dawn
and would rather be
soaking wet,
on a vast field of dewy grass,
than in this tiny, old bed.
at least i'd get to see the sky,
at least, maybe, i'd have a chance.
but there is none, so i spend my time cursing
and wishing, my love burning
and evaporating through a chimney.
how i wish
i could be again.