Will you hold me?
When I need you,
and I need you,
will you hold me
down?

You're used to it,
and I'm used to it;
will you stick my wooden crown upon my head
will you
tell me
these old bamboo halos
mean something?
Will you tell me
I mean something still.

I'd like to throw myself
another pity party.
I'd like to tell myself
I'm deep, or whatever.

But you and I both know that's not the case.
You and I know me
beneath the sneers and the veneer
and the scars I hide as beauty marks
and treat as such.

And I can't sing away the sorrow,
and I can't fuck away the pain,
and I can't drink my fill quickly enough
to remember my own name
or where I came from.

It's all a cliche'
that's what so few people seem to realize;
oh, they know it,
just in a different way
and under a different context.
The only things that matter,
or seem to matter
to our detractors
(exes, old family members, and other assorted characters)
is we receive our comeuppance.

Before you,
I never met a person
who was interested in straightening my old wooden crown.
Before you,
no one smiled at my fascination
with such a plaything.

You are my drug of choice,
my silence and my voice.
And I know the script the world has written,
but I've read it,
read the ending,
and thrown that script away.

There is one balm,
and it is you,
one key,
and you alone decided to find and use it.

And I need time.
The time and distance I never knew I needed
to sort out the things,
the dreams,
the messed up bits of information and anger
and bitterness
going through my head,
running on in my brain.

I lay down
and I wake up
and I am
in a word
obsessed,
distressed,
and can't wrap a thought around it all.