Thugs get lonely too...

Took out a pen,
sprayed ink on my skin,
made tattoos on me,
a rail way track you see,
in these rusty brown bins,
eating roasted brown peas...
Thug life sticking needles,
getting high on fear,
those who fear,
How I really look inside...
that thugs get lonely too.

I lost one,
one of my street queens,
to the cold on the streets...
eaten live by the decay,
fading by the day.
from staying away,
slowly dying away.
The thug still stay,
found a street to run,
found a color to burn,
more tattoos on his skin,
express his pain,
that thugs get lonely too.

Opening buttons,
gifts unwrapping...
feels like somebody's birthday,
a lady with table manners...
and the weight lifts over,
feels like on top of the world,
blood getting warmer,
a thug ready to stay longer,
shoot his gun in the air,
act like he don't care,
but what he's really scared,
is knowing thugs get lonely too.

walking a lady to the stop,
watch her leave in a bus,
thugs make no fuss,
pretend the heart doesn't feel...
keep losing their way,
and finding their way,
to that mean look,
THAT "I don't feel look"
straight from the thugs book.
but Thugs get lonely too.
Ain't this how we look,
thugs who still groove,
thugs who still move,
thugs who still prove,
thugs get lonely too.

** GOO GOO DOLLS - Iris **

Verse 1

And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Verse 2

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Verse 3

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Chorus

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

Question...? Answer....!

I have long wanted to voice the dissatisfaction
I have within myself
for not having
the courage to voice what truly lies within.
Even when those things may mean great harm and pain to me.
Maybe it is the pain am afraid of,
or maybe it is just the fear that's holding me back
I don't know!
I am lost for now,
I don't know what shall become of me
in the next millennium.
Will I be a fossil of this generation of degenerates
who fuse their minds to music,
and foreign influences
just because the world imposes this trends on us.
I am not sure what sort of influence I have on my world,
except perhaps that I am carrying on,
a sane note.

Is this the kind of frustration that other youth
in far worse situations than am in,
feel.
How despair eats at them,
for lack of assurance that what "we do now"
will matter when chaos comes trotting into our lives.
Will I be able to hold my own,
as my default father keeps on insisting.
I did not choose what role that I was going to play,
maybe all this is planned destiny after all.
How else shall we start to explain
why things insist on this gradient
and curve of events.
As if unraveling any faster or any slower
is a violation to a rule,
which keeps me here,
bound to this time and space which eats at me,
of every effort I attempt
to transcend the whims of mortality.
A want to survive.
A crippling need to be loved or wanted...
who is this man who speaks
in such venomous voice in me.
Why does he not come out,
and show himself in mine eyes.
Am I not fit to see the bearings of my path,
the end off all my action.
Should I find it in vain end,
which is my retreat from the physical world,
cast along the desolate spirits who walk the earth,
still searching answers to the true meaning of life,
to what purpose I have lived so long only to dissipate,
disappear as if I were not,
a significant part of this worldly adventure set on me,
from my birth.

Indeed,
why should I ask this questions if,
my creator would drop these answers to these questions in a manner,
like manna...
or like drops of rain,
a relief to the desert sands of knowledge I claim,
and still hold much pride for.
In noon time,
I will acknowledge that am aging,
always a day older than before,
making with what I have,
however short or brief.
If pretty ladies sit next to me,
and I stray a thought of passion,
catch myself before I can utter any nonsense.
Keep my cool and realize there is no need to act like a fool.

Or is it the case of need to know basis.
Am I on a need to know basis?
There is a great deal of mystery to me,
that am yet to be discovered.
Even so, why do I despair so?
Isn't it in my occupation that I should seek an understanding
into who I am,
what I will become.
Invest in that the duty and strain of my brow
into realizing this.
Maybe I should keep my tongue in cheek,
cherish what little query I still have of death and the the coming...
For it is clear what has a beginning has an end.
Regardless,
I will carry on with this charm,
play my harp and guitar like a pro.
Guess there is some sanity and bliss in optimism,
make hay while the sun shines sort of way.

Black Nail Polish...

I haven't lost it yet,
I bet...
Long time before that happens,
Because am still a garden,
who sows their seed.
so I'll keep it coming,
perennial as the grass,
that some smoke or chew on.
Last on every breath,
even as I bleed to death.

I know this nails which tear my flesh
which sever my feet,
get me on my knees,
leave a bloody trail,
make me write mail,
that's made my scent known,
so I can be hunt down,
by sniffing dogs.
But the black nail polish,
knows to scratch my back,
get my attention running,
with those cat like eyes,
which steal my soul,
bury it whole,
into her own.

The punching of keys,
to eddy words into meaning,
conjure mine with feeling,
until I drop into little trickles,
of color,
like a magic trick,
Perform my illusion,
drown in my pen ink,
splatter the finger prints
of my art,
make this my personal matter,
concern you with wonder,
how is it life sounds so sweet?

Or is it because,
Am a poet,
or that I love art,
as if it were given birth,
by its mother,
her name is Beauty.
Or do I go round into a circle,
empty my foolishness,
and fill all splendor within,
attempt to last this smile,
who's been stimulated,
by the one am looking at.
The one tearing my flesh,
with black nail polish.