There's a blank spot
in the mind for too much
thought, it fills hour by hour
taking you from reality to dream
to nightmare, and it's a wheel that
doesn't need the ground to spin, it
isn't powered by machine or man,
but it's real, and soft, and torn
straight through on each side,
we know parts are missing,
feeling a little too much,
too little said, not enough,
we are skin and soul and
mind the way you talk to
shadows, what follows people,
who remember, and change but
stay the same, when they go insane,
it's just a smudge on the glass til
someone takes a hammer to it,
and usually it's ourselves, packed
away in boxes, placed up on shelves,
twisted as the storm that knocks us
down, twisted, as the standards set
by clowns, we can tell if the smile
is painted, when that blank spot fills it
overflows, and we're left with that hole,
full of fire, black and bursting, we're
enough until we aren't anymore, I've
heard of beauty but forgot what it was
once a day, checking until every day is
full of check-marks, is it enough, to
fill the blank spot with something
special, overflown, there isn't
any room for enough, a pillow
overstuffed, it isn't comfortable
to be laying in the aftermath
of blank space, we've forgotten
our reason for doing, because
blank space is full of horror
and that's unimaginable,
for those who don't know
blank space, make blank
space a very lonely place
to live, which is why blank
space, isn't a place for love,
it's just, a lie, with power,
a lie, we believe.