Can I have a quick talk?
This pace is more a run then a walk
Outline my thoughts in chalk
Feeling Dead upon arrival
Is your cup half empty or half full?
Asks the man with his hand on my shoulder
And the room suddenly grows colder

I can hear the Sunday bells echo their ringing
I can hear the church choir start singing
But I can't tell you the purpose Or the meaning of this pastor screaming
Whispers the girl sitting on my right
Her pretty blouse all starched and white

I haven't been all honey and cream
This life is more a nightmare then a dream
Blur the boundaries of this reality
And be the one to rescue me
Says the crowd and their voices grow cold and loud

I am a statue of misery
A midnight memory
A poet who is always mumbling
His hand is not my home
And that I own.