I never try to sound poetic:
"Deep cuts on my wrists
Blood runs down my fist
I am a fool
A knife do I twist"
Instead I hear the random calls
The screams and cries from a tall high rise
In the middle of the city on the fifth block in
I look up to the limits of my eyes
They're people dancing on the street
An awareness meeting where folks meet
Small teens in cars crave something sweet
Close to nuns and quiet they keep
My head could easily spin off its nozzle
Like a bottle of ketchup
A plane at full throttle
Around and around I go again
Cities don't sleep and stories don't end
Some baby is crying down at the peer
But over his voice it's music I hear
Stopping time in a moment I fear
I'm out of reach of all that's near
Everything, something I could never taste
As long as it's present it does go to waste
Using up stories that never were mine
But every moment I share is ours made in time
