I dont want to blame the world
the world
but the world is a son of a bitch

I dont want to blame my self
my self
but my self is a son of a bitch

Ahhhhhh

so
overpopulated
and empty

I know
its not only
how im seeing

but the resources
in my mind
are depleting

Ahhhhhhh

improvised poetry and sound

I pretend it doesnt matter to me

I think about it all the time

Whats the worst that could happen
If I keep dreaming about this

Things may happen around me
I’m sure it’s nothing I’ll miss

I’ll linger on in a spell
That a draft has let in

I close my eyes
And fold the day in half
Draw the curtain

And when i wake up
If i dont look happy
Put me back in

Engines Running on Empty Stomachs

Waiting for a morning
where all the work has
been completed.
Like some outside force
came in the night
and cleaned up everything inside

When you get some energy of your own
don’t know what to do with it.
Plenty of ideas, low on juice to give them.
Idling in place they lose their heat,
Engines running on empty stomachs

Years of this are lived lazily
until you see creases in your face,
and begin to search yourself for another definition

Press against the window,
wonder what’s happening outside.
Inside is as close as I can get
to living alone
in some forest
where I would pine for commotion.

Put your world in the sun until it starts to grow,
you won’t lose a dime.
Put it in your back pocket until it burns a hole,
it will cost everything.

You will blame the past
and everything outside
refusing to obey you
while the noise inside grows louder
from the howls of engines
running on empty stomachs