Boy.

We’re playing love like a lesser game, in this life,
Like it’ll make the first more fun –
“Truth or dare?” the sky is mocking.
The truth is too terrible.
Dare, fly, care, die.
I can’t do any of it; no one taught me how.
We’re marching through life to the beat of a new generation,
And now everyone’s a drummer.
Secret headphones blaring public music
With your rhythm offbeat just to make them wonder.
Do they really, anymore?
7/4 time is the metronome he ticks in his head. Who writes like that?
I think he writes words like a man about to die,
Beautiful and brutal in his honesty,
And he likes his love bitter on occasion.
He’s a catapult king with a pronubile pen for a wife,
A broken fiefdom of scribbles and scratch-outs.
And the lies keep pouring from his mouth to seal the cracks,
To fill the streets with fog, to make the flags fly and the singers sing.
He writes himself deserted on the freeway,
Seconds from the end.
And the words make the headlights rake across his face, glaring back into Forever –
They don’t know what he is.
He doesn’t know what he is.

I don’t want the storybook ending,
Just a chapter near the beginning,
So I can be a part of the exposition.
Just give me the boy.