Smaller Fish To Fry

I know I should be working on
Things much, much more important
But I've got smaller fish to fry

As I sit and write this song
I wonder what had gone all wrong
I wonder why those songs are fake
Written just for money's sake

I wonder, wonder when we'll start
To shrivel, cringe into the dark
It doesn't sound very fun
Not to worry - we've just begun

Is Delilah real or not?
Is Sergeant Pepper true?
Did he teach the band to play?
Can he teach me too?

The Nowhere Man - he must be real
He's everywhere around us
He makes our products; cooks our food
And hasn't even found us

I know I should be working on
Things much, much more important
But I've got smaller fish to fry

Lyrics

Lyrics?
Yes.
Why?
Why not?

They are real... these lyrics
written by people
real people
they convey messages
why do I obsess over them?
Because they are true to my life
in some aspects
in others,
not so much
those are for me to write down
to turn into lyrics
to turn into songs
to have the world listen
and then
somewhere
have somebody else
think
Were these lyrics written by a person?
Or a machine?
And then they mistake me for a machine
writing lyrics all day
making digital instruments play
making guitar strings vibrate
with robotic hands
to create not a song...
but an .mp3 file
or .wma
or .mpeg4
So many variations of files
just like so many genres
of the actual music
Rock
Pop
Rap
Reggae
Blues
Indie
All so different
still music
all of them- even the crappy ones
like rap
and hip-hop
still rythmical
still music
still lyrical
still real
still convey messages
even if the message is vulgar and rude
still a message
do you choose to believe it?

Wait just a minute... What the fuck?

Tell me what’s normal
How should I feel?
Tell me what’s happening
Is it all real?

My feeling of neutral
Has diminished to nothing
What is nothing?
Nothing makes sense

It makes so much sense
But why can’t I handle it?
Why are these thoughts
I’m having so candle-lit?

Things were so clear
But memory’s fading
Things were confusing
And therefore entertaining

Things were so hard
Making them simple
But now they are clear
Clear as my pimples.

And pimples are clear
And bright as can be
From miles away
They can be seen

Yet trouble they cause
Annoyance and strife
They fill me with anger,
Confusion, and life

If this is what life is
Then what is the reason
I’m jotting down thoughts
Without any real treason

Wait just a minute…
What the fuck…
Now I’m confused
Confused like a duck

Now I’m just rambling
‘Bout ducks and confusion
Is it the music?
The Postal Servisusion?

A Word Of Advice

A Word Of Advice

A word of advice to the lovers out there
A word of advice, even if you don't care
A word of advice from a lonely misfit
Write it down somewhere if you see fit

We sound like crappy romance authors
Typing our feelings throughout the day
Some of the qualities of good writers
Writers without fans, Writers without pay

We're writers with love, and writers with sense
Writers with words and intelligent thought
Writers who's lives are governed by chance
Getting high on love and not getting caught

Write it all down, if you see fit
Just a word of advice from a lonely misfit
A word of advice, even though you won't care
This is my word to you lovers out there:

Long distance relationships suck.

The Blatant Truth

Will these words, these misplaced letters

Will they become a little better

Will I stop to think to back

Back to the day that I first met her

Blatant as these truths may be

They are as truthful as you or me

This bucket full of blatant truths

It's hidden, so you cannot see

You cannot see with eyelids closed

They must be opened, must be shown

They must be shown the blatant truth

The book of secrets must be took

And so, confessions shall be shown

Not from the holder, Not from whom they're owned

More so by the rival, the one who defies

Who defies this defiance of mortal minds

Things Obscene

THINGS OBSCENE

My breath is tasting sickly-sweet
My life is going down the drain
I see the words but I can't read
And inside we are all the same

It's true, you know - we're dark inside
The blood is bluish-green
The heart is clogged with nasty insults,
Empty words, and things obscene

The stomach, it has grown in size
To gigantic proportions
It must be filled or it will cry
And scream and scream and scream

The brain is just a lump of mush
Gray and lifeless it does seem
But somewhere hidden deep inside-
A spark, a light, a laser beam

Ghosts

(Don't try to think too deeply about this one. Much of it, I've realized, makes little sense. I wasn't thinking all that hard when I was writing it anyway.)

What is life itself were dying?
Would it even be worth trying?
Walking through my past life's lying
Walking through the walls

If life itself would make a choice
To stand or sit and ignore the voice
Maybe then we'd see the light
Maybe it would be alright

These written words - these noisy birds
These little bits of hidden pits
These useless books - would you just look?
And see the dilemma that we're in?

If time and life (such petty things)
Would just for once agree on things
But time keeps going while life stands still
And time gets all while life gets nil

The ghosts are back - they're always here
They're too old to haunt me now.
Besides, in time, we won't be really
Different after all

What Is This Story?

(this has been adapted into a song.)

Why am I here?
Who am I near?
What is this place?
And how do I steer?

Who is the teacher?
Who are the kids?
When did these students
Become such pigs?

What is this story?
Is it written in pen?
Where's the beginning?
And where is the end?

The clock has stopped
At 3:19
What does it mean?
What does it mean?

What are the answers
To all that I've asked?
Does anyone know
How much time has passed?

Sometimes I forget your name
Sometimes you do the same
Sometimes time moves slow
Sometimes I don't know where to go