Maybe I'll Be Charlotte Forever.

Or at least I'll try.
Because when you find out who I am in real life, you'll be disappointed. 

"Oh.  That's her?"

Yes, that's me. 
I'm sorry I'm not really Charlotte, let me say that now.  You must know that I wish with all my heart that it were true.  She's much more interesting than me.  Sometimes I even think that I am her.  But then I mess things up, and I know it'll never be so.  Because Charlotte is not a coward.  Charlotte says what she's thinking and doesn't do what she's told.  She's beautiful in a sad way, and never runs out of things to say, and she wears hats.  She has the right kind of head for them.  Charlotte talks just the right amount, and makes others feel welcome, and she isn't awkward or shy or fat.  Charlotte can sit in a quiet room for hours and still be happy, content with the way the light bounces off a coffee can.  That's another thing: Charlotte turns on the lights.

 I know Charlotte isn't real.
And I'll never be her.
Maybe she and I will just be distant cousins, or pen pals that don't have time to write.  She'll be living life, and I'll be watching on the other side of the glass.

I wish I could be Charlotte forever.
But I can't.

Goodbye, my friend.
It's been so much better than I could say.

Love always,
Sariah May

I'll Build Me A Paris Out Of Fountain Pens And Lined Paper.

Paris is waking up in the morning and having ten extra minutes to do your hair.

Paris is finding a 20 dollar bill in your pocket.

Paris is kissing someone you haven't seen in a very long time.

Paris is figuring out why you're angry.

Paris is being able to breathe.

In, out.  Out, in.

And that's why when I finally walked under the Eiffel Tower, I cried.

That's what beauty does to you.  It makes you cry.  And Paris is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  I stay up all night staring at it, and wishing that I'd never have to leave.  

I'll always want Paris.

Because Paris is the only place that gives me the good kind of chills.  Paris is a time when I can forget about derivatives and muscle anatomy, and remember the times when my mother would pick me up and sing "A Bushel And A Peck" into my ear.  Paris makes me think about my dad and how I'm actually really mad at him, but that's okay.  Paris tells me that I'm not perfect, but that I could get pretty close if I tried hard enough.  Paris makes me feel important again.


I try to do Paris right.  I try to give back what Paris gives me.  I wonder if Paris knows how much I need it.  I wonder if Paris knows that I've never been good at anything before.  And that I still don't really know my way around Paris yet.  But I'm connecting the streets on the back of my hand, and I'm writing down pronunciations of hard words, and I'm making my way through all the best restaurants and parks.  Paris, I'm just starting to smell the cracked bread and the wine.  I'm seeing strings of lights in my dreams.  I'm waking up to roses on the nightstand and the lingering scent of perfume on my pillow.  I'm figuring out where to start my life.  And I hope to do it in Paris.

Except I know there will be a day when I wake up and Paris is closed.  You promised me I'd always be able to find you in Paris.  But you never mentioned that Paris kicks you out after 6 months of residency.  I won't know what to do with myself.  If Paris is closed, so am I.  

I love Paris.

Paris doesn't love me back.

Denver Isn't Going To Save Us.

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"Charlotte, you're so beautiful."

I don't know why, but those words felt so empty in my head.  They rattled around like some loose change in a mason jar.  And then I started thinking about floral arrangements, and you started to sound a little bit like the teacher from those Peanuts comics.

What was that you just said?  Something about train tickets to Denver?  I don't know about Denver...  I used to live in Colorado and the people there like dogs more than humans.  That's weird.  I don't want to go to Denver.  I don't want to go somewhere that snows just as much as it does here.

And why are you inviting me to go?  You don't even know me.  We met three weeks ago.  What would you even say to me?  What would I say back?  Would you try to hold my hand?  Would you tell me I'm beautiful again?  If you do, would you say it like you did the first time, like it was so obvious?  Like it was the most ingenious thing you've ever said?  Would you take me to cafes in the mountains and let me get a dessert?  Would we wake up early in the morning and watch the sun rise?  Would I like that?

You don't even know me, yet.  You don't know that I prefer to sit in silence.  You don't know what I look like without make-up on.  You don't know that I get sad at 8:00 p.m.  You don't know that my palms sweat when I'm nervous and that I eat my food like a three year old.  You don't know that I stutter when I don't know what to say, and that I hate being around large groups of people.

You don't know what Peter did to me.

And in two minutes when you stop talking I'm going to tell you all of this.  I'm going to let you know.  And you'll smile politely and say, "some other time, then."  And you'll go back to what you were doing before, and I'll turn around and walk to my car.  And months will pass by, and you won't ever call.  And you won't ever tell me I'm beautiful again.  And you'll take a different girl to Denver.  

And I'll be happy for you.  

Or at least I'll make it look like that on the outside.

Pobre Alfred, Pobre Charlotte

The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock (<-Click to read the whole poem.  It's long, but worth it.)

by: T.S. Eliot

To me, this poem is everything.

I am Alfred.

"Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Do I?  Do I dare to speak?

"For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons..."

With coffee spoons... because I am oh so very dull.  Like the thud of heavy feet on the steps leading down to the cellar.  That's where we keep the applesauce and the canned beans.  I am so dull, like the food my dog eats.

"I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid."

My last chance came, my last chance passes.  I watch it go from the backseat on the bus.  I wonder where I'll end up, now that we've parted.  And I'll try to not care so much.

I'd rather stay sleeping all day.  

"Would it have been worth while

If one ... should say: 'That is not it at all, 

That is not what I mean at all.'"

That is not what I mean at all.

That is not it at all.

I Don't Move On.

Two steps outside and I know I've already ruined my chances.

Thanks for telling me I'm exactly what you're looking for, but that you're not exactly looking.

Oxymorons were never really my thing.

So okay, I'm not a philosopher.  I'm not ready to be enlightened.  

I'm not ready for applause or sweet perfume.

Those things are for grown ups.  And I still write letters to Santa. 

Not because I believe in him, but because I believe in routine.

I've got three hundred problems, and you're every single one of them.

Don't forget me, please. 

I wish I was actually saying something that was worth while.

But this feels like violins.  Not even an hourglass could take this away from me.

I'm losing my mind.

Please Capitalize Justice.

"So don't go around telling people that we're going to start over... this is what happened to me three years ago, and I lost my home... let him know we're struggling... This is his call, this is what he's done to me... Why have you done this to us?... He wants to protect his job and his interests... serves him right... everything points to him now... So let's go take what's mine... for all this suffering I've got to have something... this is his fault... I want Justice."

-Mr. Charles, the one and only.

I don't know who "he" is, but he sounds like a real tool.

Or at least that's what I thought 3 years ago.

Now I'm just tired.  And it's the kind that makes my mom look sad.  

I'm only 17.  I'm not supposed to be that way yet.  I haven't even been in love before, and she's had 4 kids.

I was mad at dad last week.  But only for a few minutes.  I wrote it down, and then erased it. 

I can't remember exactly what he said... but it felt wrong.

"I want Justice."

He just kept yelling it, over and over again.  

"I want Justice, I want Justice."

And then he cried.

I didn't know what to do.

So I just got real quiet.

And I'll never forget what he said next:

"Set your expectations low, little Charlotte."
                                   

              "Why?"

"Because no one wants a used napkin."

All The Things You Never Said

To my laundromat,
I'd really appreciate it if you would leave the spare change in the pockets of my coat.

To my sister,
I ate your sandwich. I'm sorry about the fight it caused, but I'm not sorry for eating it.

To the boys who always talk sports,
I don't know why overtime is exciting. To me it just seems like a convenient way to draw out disappointments.

To Mr. Nelson,
I get nervous when you don't comment on my blog.

To Peter,
You left your Bon Iver CD in my car again. I hate Bon Iver.

To that guy I work with who kind of likes me,
Today I worked an 8 hour shift. You didn't come in at all. It was endless.

To my friend that's always trying,
I didn't pick up the phone when you called that one time because I had just gotten in bed and my feet were cold.

To my neighbor,
Your breath always smells horrible.

To the hipsters at school,
For some reason, I thought buying a flannel shirt would make it okay for me to eat with you all at lunch.

To my manager,
I was flattered when you told me I was pretty, but I got confused when you said I should use that to sell more merchandise to men.

To the man who watched us pack,
I hope the pizza wasn't too gross. I'm sorry I gave you the old slice.

To Ella Fitzgerald,
You help me fall asleep sometimes.

To my dad,
I heard McDonald's is hiring. You should apply.

Margaret With The Sad Eyes, Whose Husband Never Let Her Go Outside.

Little Bird On A Wire.

"I think of you often, but for once I meant what I said."
-Lisa Hannigan

---------------------------

You're the reason I have ears and a mouth.

And I can't fall asleep anymore.

I'm pretty sure that's your doing too.

So I'll give you two months.

And I'll ask you only the good questions.

And I won't ask you to kiss my hand anymore.

And we'll just be another guy and girl

who didn't know how

to work

things

out.

Just Another "How To."

I know you came here for instructions. You want to know how to wash a horse or how to fix a flat tire or how to stop a feud between your two best friends  That's what you really want.  Not some lame diatribe from a scared girl behind a computer screen.  Because that's all I really am.  

I'm not wise.

I'm just sad.

Sad like the empty chorus of a couple hundred children, and by the way their voices sound you know they've all seen porn before.

So you want a "how to?"  I'll give you one.  How about this: How To Do Well In School. I could probably just B.S. my way through that one.  Or maybe I'll just go to bed early.  That sounds nice.  It sure beats going back and forth between Facebook and Ultimate Guitar, all the while trying to decide where I want my coffin buried.

I'm not suicidal.

I'm just profoundly messed up.

All I'm saying is that when you wake up and your mom still isn't home, you start to question your father's capabilities.  

"I don't think he's doing it right."

But that's just between you and me.

Alright, I'll give you a how to.  

This is what you've been waiting for, I'm sure.

The road to happiness, the final piece to the puzzle, and all those other cliches.

Here it is:

Thank you for your time.

Talking With Liars.

The pier was empty.  And it always will be.
You keep saying that I still look lovely in corduroy.
And I keep complaining about the wind that stings my eyes.
But you're right, I do talk too much sometimes.

Is that the best you can do?

All these other people telling me the same thing:  "He can't take you anymore."
And they tell you: "Divide and conquer the cheap conventions.  But don't let the judge hear it."
I don't even know what that means.

But I do know that I don't like to be stampeded.
And I told you that, but you ignored me.
So I just sipped my tea, while you promised that you'd take care of me.
You're always saying that, and you know aren't going to do it.

And that means that none of us ever need to go out again.

I wish I could make myself feel less sad.
I've been kneeling here for almost an hour.
And I know it drives you crazy.
And I should not have spoken.
It wasn't necessary.

But when I had woken up, I had forgotten what my name was.

And you just stared at me and said:
"No offense lady, but I don't even know you."

Snippets From The Life Of Your Worst Self

I

did not die

and discover

a list of

people who 

are 

wrong.

petrified,

ignored,

badly damaged,

he 

collapsed

in 

the street.

The Smoke Made Me Lose Something

I've been thinking about wearing pink,

and waking up in the early morning.

I've never had a better dream,

Except I don't want this sleep.

I Forget Everything, But The Red Light Bulb.

I can't remember a lot of the important things.  Things like my first soccer game or those daddy daughter dates I used to love.  I can't remember when my sister was born or when I met my best friend or when I got my first kiss.

But I do remember the color of his eyes and the knots on the tree trunk we were standing next to.  I remember the smell of the flowers he put in my hands, and the way the clouds made the mountains look like a painting.  I can remember the way my hair danced, like it was made to dance.

I remember kicking rocks around and laying down on the asphalt, just because it was warm.  And something about that made my fingertips wiggle.  And you traced my shape with chalk, but it just looked like a blob.  And we never stopped laughing about that.

I remember being scared, but still wanting to run.  As far as I could.  Until nothing looked familiar and everything was bigger than me.  Like, at least three times bigger.

I remember feeling important.  Like things wouldn't be the same without me, so I stayed.  I remember liking that, and never wanting it to go away.  But I remember when it did.

And I remember the dirty windows and how they made everything look really plain.  And I never wanted to go outside.  I remember the blue corduroy couch and the hiding spot behind it.  I remember sitting there, hidden and nervous, waiting for something to happen.  Anything.  And I remember waiting for a very long time.

And I remember the garden and the play house that smelled like moths, and the loft on top of the living room and the tea parties I never had, the fireplace, the double oven kitchen, the changed locks, and the red light bulb that never went out, even when all the other lights did.  And I remember thinking that it was stupid, because it didn't know it's place.  But neither did I.  So I guess that makes me stupid, too.

I'm stupid too.

Me with my broken mouth and cracked eyes, remembering all the things that never really mattered.

The Bank Dance

I have a bad case of writer's block right now.

But this video is worth watching.  

This Is Not A Victory March.

"It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."
--Leonard Cohen


This is going to be funny.
This is going to make you cry.
This will make you want to go out and volunteer at a soup kitchen.
This will change the world.
This is everything you wish you were.
And everything you wish you weren't.

This is everything.
This is nothing.

This is never knowing what the square root of negative pi is.
This is cat sitting for someone who only has dogs.
This is eating a hamburger in front of a vegetarian.
This is a vegetarian asking for a bite.
And this is a cow that kills a vegetarian.

This is what darkness brings with creaking floor boards and stuffy attics.
This is what the inside of a brain looks like after rehab and what happens after a hangover, and all the things you wish you said.

This is your favorite song on the radio with the car roof down and the freeway unlimited.

But this is not a love song.

This is a punch in the face and a bucket of cold water on your head.
This is walking outside to find the ground covered by snow in the middle of June.
This is a crack on the last thing your dad gave you.
A crack on the one thing you saved from the fire.

And this is a fire.
And this is what started the fire.
And this is what told the fire that it was fire and that fire is not anybody's friend.
And this is what the fire destroyed.

This... this is your mom taking a trip to Canada and never coming back.
This is waiting for your dad to get out of bed.  
This is using your Christmas bonus to buy your little sister shoes that don't rip.
This is becoming an adult way before you were supposed to.

And I know this wasn't funny.
And this didn't make you cry.
And this didn't even come close to changing the world.


But this is everything I am.
And this is all I'll ever know.

What Doesn't Fit In A Tweet @Peter

Come to me, darling, 

And live so far from here.

And don't forget 

That I'm always willing

To bring you the moon.

I don't know what it feels like to be here.  And really here.  

I can tell from your 140 character message that you're doing just fine without me.  And I want to reply and say I'm doing just fine also, but I can't seem to make it short enough.

But that's okay.  Because I have this hole in my chest.  He's like an old friend.  And when he leaves, I wonder why even he finds me to be a bore. 

And I know I'm not good enough.  I know it because when I face myself in the mirror every morning, my reflection is ashamed of me.  And she looks like she's trying to escape... except she is me.  And you can't escape yourself.

So maybe I'm not doing just fine.  But it's not like I could fit that in a 140 character message either.  Not that you'd care.

Because I've been hungry since birth, and just as lost.  And I wouldn't expect you to understand.  You with your tables and your maps.  And all the other things you never let me touch.

Still, from now until dusk, I'll count the hours until I sleep with my feet on your lap and your breath on my cheek.  And that's what worries me.

Winter Days

I think that I could fly if given wings.
I'd leave behind the cement and this jailhouse of thieves.
And the gatekeeper would tip his hat, like a real gentleman would. He'd ask me what my plans are, and I'd just say "who knows."

Except here I am.  Waiting with myself into the longest night of the year, and hoping that I'll find some source of artificial light.  Because I'm tired of the sun that burns the obsolete.  So I'm ready to become someone who doesn't live for the promise of warmth and the promise of heat.

But the night passes.
Even though we haven't.
And despite all that, I'll be glad if you ask me to stay a bit.
Because in due time, you'll forget all that has happened.
As winter brings new days...

When the snow falls thick and all will die away.
And when we stand around the fire, I'll never forget your face all lit up despite the storm.

You'll say, "Happy Christmas, darling.  Glad tidings of good cheer.  I'll see you next time, when it's a new year."

Back to those winter days.
They're beautiful, but heartless. 
And that's why they all remind me of you.

But for now, I'll just hold my own hands and wish me gone, and sing my sorry little song.

"It's getting cold outside

 The frost is keeping me out

 It gives me reason to hide

 But I won't come back."

If you want to listen to the song:
click here

Untitled

"There's a secret," you say, "a secret that'll change everything."

And you hand me a roll of silvery paper.  You tell me to wrap it around the places that leak.

So I put it on my eyes.  And I put it on my chest.

And all of a sudden the salt won't come out anymore.

But the holes are still there...

I can feel them.

All I can say now is that duct tape doesn't fix everything.

But it does stifle the pain a bit.

And if that's what I get, that's what I'll take.

Was It The Chicken Or The Egg?

"What about me?"

"Well, what about you?"

"Are you taking me with you?"

"No.  No I'm not."

"Why?"  

"Because you're just not alive."

And the dust on the closed blinds mock me.  And the piles of clothes on the floor betray me.  And the unchanged light bulbs in the bathroom tell me I'm trapped.

But it's not my fault.

Because something is different now.  It's like I'm putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable of every word.  It's like I'm wearing my socks on the outside of my shoes.  It's like the snow won't stick.

Except I'm not worried about that anymore.  Because waiting for things to be right is like waiting for Jesus.  Literally.  I'm waiting for Jesus to come and make things right again.  Like when I was strange but no one cared, when the only F-word we knew was "fair." When eggs were just eggs and daddies liked to smile.  

And maybe, just maybe, I'd like to smile once in a while, too.  But that opportunity left when you did.  Or did you leave because I never smile?  I can't remember.  It's just another chicken/egg situation, I guess. 

But I don't know, really.  
I don't know a lot of things.  
I don't know why my back hurts after seizures or why ice cream tastes better when you're crying.  I don't know why pigs like mud or why mustard is sour or why I can't seem to turn on a light.  I don't know why you think it's alright to tell me I'm not alive.  Because I have hundreds of cells and and liters of blood and a heart that feels more than a burning sensation after eating too much ginger.  I have ideas and holes and hearts and bones.  

And bones...
Maybe that's what is wrong.
My bones. 

Because My bones don't care about other people or even other people's pets.  My bones want the world on a platter--all sliced up in neat cubes and arranged in a semi-circle, garnished with cilantro and respect.  

And my head wants my bones to shut up.  My head wants facts and reason.  My head wants a list full of numbers and letters, a clear and wide eyed response as to why we're so messed up. 

So why can't I say I'm done?  Why can't I say I'm done with heads and bones?  Because neither can tell me what's right and neither can compromise or sacrifice or realize that some things are more important than silly arguments.

Silly arguments like chicken and eggs and smiling.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Things I Shouldn't Have Overheard, But Did Anyway

"Well, if I'm not the father, then who is?"

"Daddy, that really hurt."

"I'm out of booze."

"I don't know what happened after that, I was unconscious."

"You've got some nerve."
"I think I took too many pills this time."

"I hate your mother."

"He can't ever know I did that while he was away for the weekend."

"I don't know how to stop."

"LIAR."
"DADDY, YOU'RE HURTING ME."

"I've forgotten what that feels like."
"I can't wait to see her cry."
"You weren't what you said you were."
"You really hurt me this time.  In a way that can't be undone."
"Get out.  Get out and never come back."

"You think you deserve that?"
"I will never forgive you."
"Sometimes I just wish..."

And I do sometimes wish.  I sometimes wish all the time.  What an anticipated disappointment.  What a wonderful world.

Integuments

I had a dollar in my hand and a patch on my feet, I had a collar 'round my neck and too many scars on my knees.

I had a love once, he had no other job.  Still, he wasn't enough and he got himself robbed.

But it's 1,2,3, put your money on me.  Put my skull in your grip, feel it crack as you squeeze.

If you really look close, you might see you broke me.  But I'll never admit to being your fancy.  

Because I'm a little paranoid, and when you knock on my door, I only feel ignored.  

It's only then I feel a bit of spite.  
And I'll give you nothing more than that, alright?

Dearest Peter,

I went too far.  

And for that I can only say this: it's a burden that I carry on me.

But you were never concerned for me, were you?  You were never the one clawing at my legs, screaming at me to slow down.  And now when I'm falling out the fifth story window, all at once it feels like home.  The ground... it seems like home.  

And I'm tired, Peter.  Because you never are.  And someone has to be.

So stop asking me if she loves you back.  

Because I'm thinking about you.  I'm thinking about you like my dad thinks about work, and like ghosts think about breathing.  Like poets think about suicide; like you think about suicide.  

So what else do you want me to say?  I'm sorry I can't fix you, I guess I just don't equate.  I guess I just don't equate to you.  Is that what you want to hear?

I'm stuck on that poem you wrote last December.  You said it was about me.  And I didn't get it.  All I know is that I wish it were last December, just to remember what it felt like to be thought of like that.

Absolutely Nothing

A POEM THAT WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ME, BUT I WISH IT WAS:

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Chops'
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed alot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Autumn'
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed alot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Innocence: A Question'
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at 3am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly.

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen. 

by Osoanon Nimuss

It's So Much Worse Than We Ever Thought

Sometimes I feel like Antarctica.  And that makes me afraid, because she never loved anyone.

I am afraid.  Of you.  Of the sky.  Of the dirt.  Of the little pieces of my skull that I left behind in Colorado and San Francisco.  I'm afraid of it all.  Afraid of us.

We were made to break hearts, that's why.  We were made to let each other fall, to bury each other in the Earth's core, so deep that no thing can utter the word "forgiven," as overdue as it is.  We were made to die.  And die we shall.

And I'm afraid to die, just like I'm afraid to live.  Because the only thing worse than termination is immortality.  The only thing worse than watching your mother die is being forced to go on afterwards.  And the only thing worse than that is the fear.  The anxiety.  The death grip it has on my heart is unbearable, unimaginable, and irreverent.  And I don't even know which of those is worse.

Because when you upset God... now that's really worse than all of it, isn't it?

I am too afraid of that.

I'm afraid of upsetting my mom, also.  But I'm more afraid of her upsetting me.  I'm afraid of her telling me that I can't go to college because she spent all the money on groceries.  I'm afraid that that has happened.  I'm afraid of it happening again.  And again.  And again.  Until my grandparents close down the inn and we live in our car.

I'm mostly afraid of one day waking up and not being afraid.  Because someone like me needs the fear.  Needs to feel insignificant and worthless.  Someone like me doesn't deserve to be brave.  Because the second I'm afraid, I leave.  And I don't know what I'd do if I could stay.  I don't know what I'd do.

Happy Days.

Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland

"Forget your troubles (Happy days)
Come on get happy (are here again)
You better chase all your cares away (The skies above 
are clear again)
Shout hallelujah (So let's sing a song)
Come on get happy (of cheer again)
Get ready for the judgement day (Happy days are here 
again)

The sun is shining
Come on get happy (shout it now)
The lord is waiting to take your hand (There's no one 
who can doubt it now)
Shout hallelujah (So let's tell the world)
And just get happy (about it now)
We're going to the promise land (Happy days are here
again)

We're heading across the river
Soon your cares will all be gone
There'll be no more from now on
From now on

Forget your troubles (Happy days)
And just get happy (are here again)
You better chase all your blues away (The skies above 
are clear again)
Shout hallelujah (So let's sing a song)
And just get happy (of cheer again)

Happy times (Happy times)
Happy nights (Happy nights)
Happy days
Are here again!"

YOU'RE WELCOME.

I don't know why that matters, but it does.

"I had my teeth bared for battle, 'til love lost made me dull."

--Lisa Hannigan

I tried love once.  It left me with a flat butt and an over-abundance of See's Candies.  My favorite is the raspberry truffle.  I don't know why that matters, but it does.

That time I tried love was back when I had longer hair and he was religious.  Back when he'd pretend to be Cary Grant and sing the alphabet with a bad Australian accent.  It was a bad Australian accent.  I don't know why that matters, but it does.

He was just tall enough to change the batteries in the smoke detector, but short enough to not get caught on branches.  He mixed his forks and spoons together like it was a Benetton Ad and always laughed at Spongebob.  Sorry, with Spongebob.  He would often eat with one hand and write with the other, and he'd whistle show tunes while doing the laundry.  I don't know why that matters, but it does.

He never was upset.  Not ever.  And then he was.  I can say that it was fate, but I should've checked the weather.  

Yes, I tried love once, and I hated the after taste.

And I don't know why that matters, but it does.

Bridges

I'll take my time with this now, thinking that you wanna hear.  Maybe if I try hard enough I'll beat the fear of what they say between the kisses and the disses and the pointed looks at the people they think are queer.
You think we're different, but we've still got the same blood.  It's red and thin and it threatens to come out if you cough.  It smells like something died in here, maybe because you turned your back.
Despite all that, we all have a common goal: to get out of this place and try to win it all.  But the truth is we are waiting for the same fate: too tight of jeans, with a baby in a milk crate.

You see I try to build a bridge between these two worlds
But the Earth comes up and swallows it whole
And I stand there, dumb, foolish, and cracked
And the people on the other side just pass by

They never say

Who's over there, who's that lonely soul
Is there something I should do?
Is there something I should say?
I can see the future, and I don't think it's headed the right way.

But I'll just go on with my life the way it should.

Becuase the people in the huts in another part of town aren't doing much to me except occasionally getting me down.
I write a note, saying let's give ten bucks to a fund, and then I'm good for another year, or I'm just done.
The jig's up, I care as much as you do. 
But it's not all enough to help the children who got stuck without a mom, lost their face in a fire.  The one's whose dads sleep with guns and wires. 
And I know for a fact that it's too much to ask that we all have to feel with every inch for as long as we last.  After a while, you lose track of what is real, and you try to get it back when you kneel.  You're crying out, "Lord, I'm tryin' to save redemption.  But it feels as if I'm not a part of that exemption.  Is there a place where I don't have to sit with my hands in my pockets and my head bowen to my hips?"

And the bridge I tried to build between those two worlds
Just broke down right there, it fell into the Earth.
Now I stand there, not moving, not thinking, but weeping.
And the people on the other side never stopped to ask
Who I am, or who I was or what they need to do to lift me up.

I see the future, and yeah, it looks pretty bad.
But I'll just live my life, the way it should.