I’ve was waiting for my head to produce something less vicious when;
he said look at you now, you’re past the point where words can make do.
I nod in agreement. (Except I think living like you do is a kind of abasement.)
I’ve been tired of rhyme schemes and sought a replacement
for the broken reality books could no longer improve.
He said: I’ll wait for your head to produce something less arrogant.
Churning waters create mile high waves that swallow me by accident,
and leave a gaping crevice over which even he can’t move,
he patiently climbs (I think living like I do is a kind of abasement)
down into the sinking source of my constant frustration-
reminds me- baby we’re young, I don’t know the world any better than you,
I can help you sit and wait patiently for your head to work again.
Surrounded, drowning and mute I ask them what we’ve been chasing,
defer to these sunken-eyed Gods I don’t believe in anew
and laboriously find that living like they do is just self-immolation.
He holds me in his arms and says baby you need to stop wasting
away in your lies, your fantasies and suicidal plans that always fall through-
I’ll be here waiting for your head to produce something less vicious when
you finally decide that living like this is a kind of abasement.