the city has sex with itself i suppose
  as the concrete collides, the scenery grows
  and the lonely once bandaged lay fully exposed
  having exposed their wounds for each other
  and there is a boy in a basement with a four track machine
  he's been strumming and screaming all night, down there
  the tape hiss will cover the words that he sings
  but then they say it's better to bury your sadness
  in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to awake from its sleep
  and burst into green
  and i've cried and you would think i would better for it
  but the sadness just sleeps and it stays in your spine
  for the rest of your life
  and i've learned and you'd think i'd be something more now,
  but it just goes to show it is not what you know
  its what you were thinking at the time.
  this feeling's familiar, i've been here before
  in a kitchen this quiet i waited for a sign or just something
  that might reassure me of anything close to meaning or motion
  (with a reason to move)
  i need something i want to be close to
  and i scream, but i still don't know why i do it
  because the sound never stays it just swells and decays
  so what is the point?
  why try to fight what is now so certain?
  the truth is all that i am is a passing event that will be forgotten.