Things that I lost

My best songs, I write them when I'm sick. On my knees, kissing the bowl. The artist and his art of making pain beautiful. This is me being bold.

And I know, as of now, nothing will be lost.

I climbed down from the whorehouse in the tree. A treehouse where everyone finds a friend. Where I spent the entire morning trying so hard to forget. The things that I lost. The things that I won. But then that I lost.

I started looking for the sun, walking home. In a street that bears the name of a queen. When the raindrops hit my face (January is such a disgrace). The things that I lost. Along with the sun. Got me so cross.

As the ocean smiles and kisses the shore. Like an old man waves his hand to a child. I remembered feelings I had forgotten for so long. Feelings I tossed. About that someone. And things that I lost.

The floor lifted her feet so high. And she never thought that she could die. She felt so alive, I thought it was love. But all this is lost. Don't tell anyone. I think I am lost.

I met with a soldier in a bar. He taught me a few lessons about life. He said no one had an answer to his dreams. Of Jesus on the cross. The man with the gun. Was found and then lost.

I also knew a songwriter who worked hard at feeling comfortable. In the spot he was slightly hunched over. He told me to stop. Like a ray of sun. His words came across.

He said:

My best songs, I write them when I'm sick. On my knees, kissing the bowl. The artist and his art of making pain beautiful. Now this is me being bold.

And I know, as of now, nothing will be lost.