In between my fingers, there are wide open spaces,
Where I can cram pencils and stories and people and stars,
Like bread-kneaders kneading bread.
These pencils and stories and people and stars mean nothing;
They are only lonely moments, shedding themselves,
Shredding themselves, becoming and unbecoming.
These pencils and stories and people and stars mean everything
In between nothing and everything there is something;
I’m not sure what to call that.
There are two kinds of people in this world-
Those who know that there aren’t two kinds of people in this world
And those who are only fooling themselves.
The moon affects the tides somehow;
I am not sure how.
But we sure as hell can get lost in Her craters and tidal waves.
Any destruction is self-destruction.
Robbery, Road Rage, Nuclear Warheads,
Arson, Heroin, Genocide, Nerve gas-
All slit wrists on insecure teenagers.
Anarchy is humanity’s inherent freedom.
It pours from your pores and reddens the sky.
No one can lightning-strike your soul.
If they try, you will only rise, electric phoenix.
The moon smirks at us in crescents,
Says, Damn, man.
Just let it all wax and wane.
There will always be a reason to kill yourself,
But there will always be pencils and stories and people and stars
I know I can’t make you make yourself stay,
But I can clutch you until there is no more clutching,
And I can thank you all for being bodies.